Deal Me In
by RavenImperatrix
Summary: A strikingly mysterious woman enter's Sherlock & John's world just at a piviotal moment.  Who is she and who's side is she on? My take on what comes next, at the end of The Great Game. Sherlock/OC plans to get steamy later on
1. Boom

**Deal Me In**

By Ravenimperatrix aka Eileen George

Set towards the end of the Great Game and beyond.

Sherlock is the property of BBC Drama, et al..

Alexandra Ravenna and OC's are mine and any unauthorized use will be met with a brace of pistols at dawn.

Chapter 1- Boom!

"No you won't!" the sing-song voice of Jim Moriarty calls behind him as he leaves the pool.

Waiting a moment, then Sherlock sets the gun down, "alright?" he asks of his friend, swiftly removing the dangerous coat and flinging it down away as far a possible. "Are you alright?" he asks again.

Getting a positive answer, he retrieves the automatic and runs out the door, belatedly following his antagonist as John Watson's legs nearly collapse him to he ground as the adrenaline leaves him.

The clang of the metal door proceeds Sherlock's return to the pool, the combination of relief and frustration as his quarry had eluded him. Stalking back and forth, John looks up to him, "are you okay?" he asks pointedly.

A distracted, "Me yeah, fine, I'm fine," returns Sherlock's attention to John. After a moment, he tries to thank him in his awkward manner. "That uh, thing that you, uhm, did, offered to do, that was…..good."

Acting as he hadn't heard him, John observes, "I'm glad no one saw that," to Sherlock's continued pacing.

"Hum?" he queries, finally stopping his perpetual motion, bending slightly towards John.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

"People do little else," he returns with a wry smile.

John snorts in amused agreement an starts to stand when he notices a red laser point on his chest. "Oh," he begins in disgust as a door further away opens with a squeak.

A familiar voice calls out "sorry boys! I'm so changeable!" with a clap of his hands. "It is a weakness of mine, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue, you just can't."

"I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say, you've already crossed your mind."

Sherlock's back is to Moriarty as reds dots waver on his upper torso and neck as he looks to John. Seeing same realization and agreement from his friend, he answers, "probably my answer has crossed yours," as he turns and aims the automatic at his foe's head, his blue eyes cold and steady.

Slowly, he lowers the gun to point at the semtex and diode covered coat on the ground.

The moment is tense, as if waiting for something to alter the dire circumstances of the stand-off.

Unbelievably, the unanticipated distraction comes from a whistling in the distance, becoming more clear as someone approaches from the opposite side of the pool. The door leading from the women's changing room opens to reveal a seemingly oblivious woman in a black one-piece suit, as the origin of the whistler. Midway through a perfectly decent rendition of _Strangers in the Night_, towel draped over one shoulder and thongs flapping against the cement floor, she slips her feet out and tosses the towel over-top of them. Taking a hair-stick, she grabs her long black tresses and begins twisting them upon her head as she turns to the pool, finally noticing the tableau across the pool.

Three pairs of eyes take in her presence, each noticing something different.

John Watson sees a beautiful woman who could soon become a casualty of the mad-man who'd until recently had been using him as a walking bomb.

Jim Moriarty sees another possible death he can take joy in.

Sherlock Holmes sees beyond the obvious, taking in her muscle tone and while her face and eyes appear shocked and surprised, her body language seems more prepared for action than fear or flight.

Her arms still over her head, but stilled from their occupation, looks over to the men, her bottom lip quivering as if in fear.

Dismissing her, knowing the men before him would find her presence more problematical for them than for him, he gloats, "looks as if we have a stand off, my dears."

Sherlock, one eye on the new addition and one on Moriarty, keeps the gun steady on the coat.

Moriarty starts to chuckle, as Sherlock watches the woman look from the amused man back to him.

Her eyes roll up in her head as her knees start to buckle and her arms quickly fall forward. What is barely perceptible is the object flying through the air and into the shoulder of Moriarty, until he cries out in pain.

Pulling the metal projectile out of his shoulder as he stumbles back outside of the pool, he doesn't notice the woman cross the metres around the pool in record time to grab both men and drag them flying into the pool as the electronics of the vest receive a signal and explode behind them just after they hit the water.

The concussion throws them all to the far bottom end of the pool. Flaming fabric, wood and metal pieces strike the water and particles of cement rain down. The blast finally dissipates as John and the woman come up for air.

Looking around, John notices the lack of one of their party and shouts, "Sherlock!"

The woman dives down and retrieves his friend from the bottom. John notices the bleeding from the side of Sherlock's head and leads the way to the ladder against the side of the pool. Ascending first, he helps pull his wounded friend from the pool, the woman following right behind.

As she deftly moves to pump the water out of his lungs, John grabs the nearby towel she dropped earlier and places pressure of the bleeding head wound. Bubbled coughing as water escapes from Sherlock's mouth is followed by a weak moan.

John sighs in relief at his friend's signs of life. Suddenly the pool is crawling with Specialist Firearms Command and Emergency Service personnel.

Two uniformed emergency workers with a rolling gurney between the come to the poolside and begin to render aid.

John Watson stands off to one side in disbelief as a man in full tactical gear arrives before the woman now standing tall, her bathing suit dripping, and salutes her. "Ma'am, we've collected all of the snipers, but it appears the primary target has evaded us."

A small burst of communication comes over the radio at his shoulder, he answers and a harried looking DI Lestrade enters the pool.

Hurrying over, he looks over the survivors of the explosion. "Dr. Watson, how's Sherlock?" he nods at the consultant, who was being lifted carefully upon the gurney and strapped in.

"Bit pranged up, but barring anything unusual in the X-rays, he should be fine."

"I'll meet you at the A&E, you go on with him," he ordered. He turns to the woman, "and who the hell are you?"

As the woman begins to speak, she's interrupted buy the man who'd been reporting to her, "Ma'am, need to know."

Giving him a cool stare, "on my responsibility, Lieutenant. Send a detail with the ambulance, I want an armed guard on both men at all times," she sends him off with a flick of her hands.

As the wounded man and his entourage leave the building, John watches the woman step closer to Lestrade and begin speaking.

**Ok, folks, this is the beginning, reviews are loved…..cupcakes to all.**


	2. Introductions

_Deal Me In_

_Chapter 2_

'_Ding!' announces the arrival of the lift. Doors open to the sparsely occupied floor, disgorging a small, but intense looking group. _

_Two deadly looking, well-dressed men flank a tall, striking woman leading them with purpose. One takes position against the wall beside the nurse's station, leaving his companion to guard their client. _

_Noticing the armed sentry outside a particular door down the hall, the pair stride past the already put-upon ward nurse and up to the guard. "Report!" she demands. _

_The armed man stands at attention, hand flying up in a salute. "Ma'am. Medical's been and gone, both Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes are inside. They've been joined by one DI Lestrade about five minutes ago. No unusual activity to report." _

"_Thank you," she notices his name patch, "Ashdown. If you'd keep everyone else out, I'd appreciate it," she orders through a politely worded request. _

"_Ma'am." he acknowledges as her imposing guard proceeds her into the aforementioned room, the door re-opening to allow her access after his quick once-over. _

_Entering the medical room, a bit on the biggish side for it's one patient, but perhaps appropriate for the obvious difficulty, this one man had, and would continue to cause the medical profession in future; The bodyguard's unintended effect was to switch it's concentration from the frustrating consulting detective to the mysterious woman from earlier that evening._

_A professional nod to the DI across the room, as she moves to the occupied bed, snatching the metal clipboard. A quick glance, dismissing it and it's contents as she tosses it onto an vacant bed. _

"_Sherlock Holmes?" she offers him a strong hand, "Alexandra Ravenna. Sorry we weren't introduced in a less-violent manner, but we were a bit rushed." She takes the time to visually examine his injuries, the laceration to his head the most obviously dangerous evident by the slight difference in his pupils._

_Sherlock slowly releases her hand, diverted from his previous argument by this new puzzle. His intense inspection by anyone else would seem rude, but both Lestrade and John had grown accustomed to his peculiarities and she, while not oblivious, didn't seem to mind. _

_John steps forward, his hand at the ready, "John Watson. I'd like to thank you for earlier, for both of us, I mean," he includes his occupied flat-mate. "How did you happen to be there?"_

"_That's what I'd like to know, as well," puts in Lestrade. _

_Sherlock tilts his head, interested in whether she'd answer._

"_I'd been approached by a colleague with information about your bomber. An agreement of reciprocity required me to take a hand in matters."_

"_That was a bit above and beyond hands on, Doctor Ravenna," Sherlock interjects._

_She bows her head, acknowledging his correct conclusion, to the other's confusion. "I was rushed, not the best way to run an op, but one works with what one gets." She nods to the guard at his post by the door, who quietly speaks into a small device. "To that end, I am going to suggest that neither of you return to your rooms at Baker Street until Moriarty is neutralized."_

"_Neutralized?" catches Lestrade. "Not caught?" He looks to the implacable faces of all three of them, "ah, yes." _

_Her face relents a bit, "Not that he isn't a mad dog that needs to be put down, he is and he does; but it's unlikely that standard, British law enforcement will be equal to identify and eradicating this network."_

"_British?" his face wrinkles in frustration. "Who the hell are you?" _

"_I'm not here in my official capacity. Does so keep the ret-tape to a minimum."_

"_Great! The legal niceties have been observed. So that's covered. But you still haven't told us who you are!" he growls, as he moves towards her._

_The guard at the door moves to intercept the annoyed detective when she waves him back to his post._

_Lestrade pauses with a gulp, realizing the danger he was almost in. _

_The woman stands there, weighing the merits, and comes to a decision. _

_She squarely moves to face him, taking his hand in a surprisingly firm handshake. "Let me formally introduce myself, then. Detective Inspector, I am Doctor Alexandra Ravenna, founder and CEO of Ravenna Industries."_

_He returns her handshake, stunned, but soon rebounds. "Ma'am, nice to meet you. You did a great thing by these two, but that still doesn't explain anything."_

_A small lopsided smile, makes the beautiful face far more accessible, "ah but you inquired about my identity, not explanations." _

_Her answer sends Lestrade pacing between Sherlock's bed and John's comfortable roost on a vacant gurney and back. _

_John sat in a quiet place within himself, just absorbing everything around him, almost disconnected. He'd felt the fuzzy, wrapped in cotton feeling that shock and pain meds can bring to his body, but this was different. He seemed willing to see which way the wind would blow him next, and if he didn't mistake the signs, it appears this Dr. Ravenna might just be the storm front to do it._

_Sherlock's bright eye's took in every movement, his ears listened for any aural clues. Watching someone else stir his favourite Metropolitan detective into a tizzy, while entertaining, wasn't moving things along. _

_Taking pity on the poor man, he clears his throat, gathering the attention of the room and begins his read of the situation. _

"_Doctor Ravenna is a more than well educated woman who is older than she appears, and works with the police as a consultant. She's from a major European city, in Germany, would be my guess, and while she's often around security personnel, she herself rarely finds a need for it." _

_He turns to her to observe her reactions to his pronouncements. He hides his slight disappointment as she doesn't appear ruffled at all. _

_She notices the room seems to be waiting. "Oh, that was quite good, Mr. Holmes." _

_Slightly deflated at her less than enthusiastic praise, Sherlock's thoughts turn inward, Perhaps John and Lestrade are lucky that he's unaware of their shared glee at his discomfort. Their delight soon dims._

"_The rumours of your highly perceptive observational skills we're not exaggerated." she added._

_This enlivens the lanky man, who springs from the bed, just as there's a knock at the door. He immediately regrets the vigour of his leap, when t stabbing pain strikes him through his head. _

"_Careful," she warns the patient, "you've got a mild concussion there." Turning to the man beside the door, "Riley, if you would?" she nods towards the door to the hallway. _

_The man minutely jerks his head upwards and opens the door just enough to see who'd knocked for entrance. Reaching out with whispered words exchanged, he returns with an armful of clothing._

_Doctor Ravenna moves to Sherlock, gently but firmly returning him to his seat on his bed. "As I was beginning to discuss earlier, it's not safe for the two of you to return to Mrs. Hudson's home." _

_At this, Dr. Watson inhales with alarm. "Sherlock, if it's not safe for us, what about Mrs. Hudson?"_

"_I believe Dr. Ravenna was heading in that direction, yes?"_

"_Indeed, and please, both of you call me Alexandra. I reserve the 'Doctor' for recalcitrant employees and difficult bureaucrats." After nods from both, she continues, "Mrs. Hudson has taken a lovely little holiday in Spain with her 'niece'. She'll be gone for at least a fortnight. We'll keep Baker Street under surveillance, and have it repaired as well."_

_John finds himself becoming more relieved, the fugue effect beginning to wear off. _

"_And us?" a deep, suspicious voice inquires. "I'm certain you've got a nice, little, safe house for us to wither away in."_

_Shifting slightly to answer Sherlock head on, "I was hoping that the two of you would like to come stay with me at my home. There's more than enough room, and the security there is second to none. But if you'd rather some drab, tip where you can watch the wallpaper peel off, then be my guest." _

_Sherlock eyes her, calculating her motives, when she adds, "I'm certain your brother can find some dull watchdogs to keep you company until the authorities find Moriarty."_

_Sherlock shrugs in mocking surrender, a wince reveals the pain from his head wound. "Madame, it appears you shall have houseguests. You'll come to regret it, most probably."_

_Seeing the companionable agreement from Dr. Watson, Alexandra waves Riley over with his stack. She divvies up the clothing to their owners, who don their respective coats and accessories on Sherlock's part. _

_Alexandra takes a silver card case out of her black leather trench coat and pulls out a card. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, when you need to reach Sherlock, just call that number."_

"_Where are you taking them?" he asks, carefully placing the plain, but for ten black digits embossed on the expensive card-stock, into his billfold _

"_Sorry, need to know. Security purposes, I'm sure you understand."_

"_Sure, sure," he wipes his tired face, frustrated by the lack of answers, when a thought hits him. "How close was Sherlock?"_

"_Almost dead on the money."_

"_Almost?"_

_She smiles, "I live in Austria, not Germany."_

_Lestrade just shakes his head, wondering why he's still surprised after five years. "So you consult with your police?"_

"_Yes," she answers, following the two men out of the room, the guard taking the flank position. I'm a special investigator with the BK, and occasionally the FBI and even a few cases here in England." _

_The lift arrives and the men enter, leaving the front for her. _

"_What do you specialize in? Lestrade asks._

_Just as the doors close, framing her dead centre, "Serial Killers."_

_**Oooo, yep, this one's a long one, and it took me forever to get it right, (at least, I think it's right) Comment, criticize, bitch, complain, tell me what you had for dinner, all human contact is like double chocolate brownies. Nope, I ain't needy. Well….maybe a bit**_

_**And I guess I should say this is going to be continued….I got plans….but how to get them there…ah, the beautiful anguish of creativity…I hate/love it. Nope, no problems here.**_


	3. Welcome

Deal Me In

Chapter 3

The black limo was pretty standard, at least John Watson supposed it was standard, he'd not made a habit of occupying limos, but since he'd just seen two others that appeared to be identical to the one now whisking him, his flatmate and the striking Dr. Ravenna, to parts unknown. There was a lot of unknown going on, and while his adventures had often left him in the dark, confused and turned around, this evening's exploits had pushed him too far, too long, without answers.

Passing through London to it's outskirts, they ride through streets lightening with the dawn. Pulling into an iron-gated drive, it opens automatically, the limo slowly creeps down a winding lane until it draws up to a large English stately manor. The limo draws to a stop, the front door of the home opens and a traditionally dressed butler moves with the smoothness of years of practice down the steps and to the back door.

Opening the door, "velcome home, Madam." he greets her with a distinct Teutonic accent.

"Thank you, Gunthar," she returns, as the driver opens the door opposite hers to allow her guests to exit. "We'll be having house-guests for the foreseeable future. I think the burgundy suite would be best."

"Of course," he bows and turns to return to the door, holding it open for the trio to enter before him. Following, he closes and locks the large door, pressing a sensor pad beside it.

He turns to help his mistress off with her leather coat, revealing a perfectly cut designer skirt-suit. "There is a small breakfast laid down in the parlour if you'd like," he begins, as he hangs her coat up and takes the coats from the others. "It will take a few minutes to assure your accommodations are prepared."

He leads them down to two sliding pocket doors, slipping them aside. The insides look something straight out of a French salon, ornate fixtures and furniture of the Rococo style comfortably fill the room. A gilded, marble topped side table holds Tiffany covered dishes and an antique Russian samovar sits to one side beside porcelain dishes and tea cups.

Alexandra turns to her man, "we'll serve ourselves, I'm sure Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are tired after their long night and will be needing their rooms fairly soon."

"Of course, Madam," he agrees, reaching into an inner coat pocket, he removes a large, crisp envelope, a large red seal stamped on it's flap. "This arrived earlier by special messenger. They are expecting a reply."

"Thank you." she nods as he bows himself out of the room. Envelope in hand, she points to the spread, "help yourselves, I should just be a moment." She walks to a desk in the far corner of the room and removes a thin dagger and slips it under the seal as Sherlock and John look to one and other.

With a shrug, John heads over lifting silver covers off of heated dishes, finding an assortment of breakfast foods, he begins to fill a plate.

Sherlock moves to the samovar, pouring himself a cup of tea, then quietly makes his way over to his hostess, looking over her shoulder as she reads her invitation. "Windsor Palace?" he asks.

She turns her head, a tired smile on her face. "Yes, unfortunately, I'll have to decline her kind summons." She opens a side drawer and pulls out thick writing paper, quill and inkwell. With a quick but neat hand, she writes a small missive.

Sherlock notices the ease and familiarity with the archaic tools, as she dusts the still wet ink, taps it off into a tray and folds her reply to the Queen, sealing it with black sealing wax. Pulling a large pendent from beneath her shirt and using it to make an elaborate impression, it's appearance a stylized 'R' with Celtic elements.

While they'd been occupied over the invitation, John has taken a seat on a blue embroidered sofa, it's wooden carving scrolled and gilded. Fully tucking into his plate, he takes a moment to drink some tea and opines, "I don't know if it because I'm starving or what we've been through, but this is just about the best breakfast I've had."

Finishing the letter, she places it in a tray, rises and heads to the side table. "I'm glad you're enjoying it, Dr. Watson." She slips a plate from the table and spoons egg's Benedict and a slice of toast from their respective trays.

"Please call me John," the doctor requests, interrupting his eating. He begins to stand as she makes her way to sit in a chair next to him.

"Please," she begins, "sit. It's far to early to stand on ceremony." Taking her own advice, she sits taking small bites of her food as she watches Sherlock move across the room, taking in the furnishing and looking at the paintings.

Stopping at a tempra on canvas picture placed behind a glass case, he asks, "is this an original?"

"Yes, it is an Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi."

Sherlock turns and looks at her for a moment, his flatmate's confusion cause a small smile to flash across his face. "You'd probably recognize him by his nickname, Botticelli,"

Sherlock grins at John's astonishment. Then waves his hand around the room, indicating the artwork on the walls. "I'd say there's over a quarter of a billion just in paintings in the room. " He moves to sit in a chair across from Alexandra, placing his empty teacup on the table beside him.

At this, John's mouth and eyes open wide, his breakfast forgotten. He shakes himself and inquires, "how do you keep all of this safe?"

"Beyond state-of-the-art security, and the fact that few know the extent of my collection?"

"I'm sure if any do know of it, your reputation would warn off all but the least wary," Sherlock interjects.

"Reputation?" John asks.

"If I recall correctly, Dr. Ravenna's written a few monographs on serial homicide, and there was that incident in Bradfield with a dead killer."

John turns to look at their hostess, his surprise evident, but recognizing something familiar in her eyes, she'd stood close to death and dispensed it.

She shrugs her shoulders, sipping from a glass of grapefruit juice. "It was him or us. Fortunately the Crown Prosecutor agreed."

Even with the interesting subject matter, it had been a long few days and John breaks the mood with a wide yawn. "Damn, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, if you're done, I'll take you up to your rooms."

He looks around, trying to figure where to place his empty plate, Alexandra rises and takes it from him, walking past the side table and placing both sets to one side.

"If you'll follow me?" she asks them, leading them out of the parlour back into the main hall and up a grand staircase.


	4. Respite

Sorry it took so long, life can be a beyach. Hope you like. Reviews and critiques are loved. Resee's miniatures to those who review!hn

I still don't own Sherlock, John or the others, damnit all!

Chapter 4

"Sherlock!"

"Hmmn?" returned a distracted grunt, which shouldn't have surprised him, but as he was trying to get his patient's attention for the third time, while standing over him, penlight flashing over his face.

"Just pay attention to me for a minute, then you can return to exploring our temporary digs."

"I suppose I shan't get any peace until you've concluded your medical imperatives?"

"Unlikely, besides, you wouldn't want any corruption to that hard drive. So, look forward."

Obeying with a deep sigh, he looks up to John's tired eyes, squinting in the glaring illumination.

The grunt and creasing of his forehead confirm Sherlock's continued discomfort as do the slight un-evenly dilated pupils. "Follow my finger," he directs as he slowly moves his index about. A professional nod and extinguishing the light indicate the end of the impromptu exam.

"Well, Doc! Is it twins?" Sherlock drawls mockingly.

"I wouldn't be surprised, at this point. " as he bends to gently probe the wound site.

"Hey!' he flinches away. Eye's narrowing, "Come to think of it, I've never seen your doctor's certificate…." trailing off.

"Ah, yes, that," he pretends to think, "After the explosion on Baker Street, it probably got blown to pieces. I'm sure the GMC can be bribe….I mean, I'm sure I can request a copy." John, again, pretends to be thinking, broad gestures that could grace the most obvious of panto's. "I might be able to get one out of a box of Weetos."

"Ah," Sherlock tiredly joins in, "I'm sure Mycroft could threaten someone to issue one."

"That would be quicker, speaking of your redoubtable brother, I'm surprised he's not swooped down upon us and battened you in fleece." Finished with his patient, he forgetfully flings himself into a nearby wing-back chair with a hiss of discomfort.

The soft support of the chair envelops him in it's velvety thickness. Dark green, almost black, stands out against the general burgundy of the sitting room's décor. His hands unconsciously rub the soft arms as he looks about the room. If he had to describe his current surroundings, his one word would be luxurious. While he was sure everything was expensive, what was more impressive was how comfortable and lived in it all appeared.

He was so busy visually exploring, that he didn't realize that his companion hadn't replied to his last. Re-focusing his attention, Sherlock's look of intense concentration was familiar.

As was the frustrated anger. "Damn this head of mine, you're right!" He bounds out from the sofa, and begins blazing a trail across the mostly burgundy oriental rug, with just a flash of pain. "I'm beginning to see Mycroft's Machiavellian machinations behind this kind offer of Dr. Ravenna's."

Concerned that excitement is not what this doctor ordered, he tries to deflect his friend, "does dealing with your brother bring out the alliteration in you?" he asks with a barely forced chuckle.

This stops him in his tracks, looking at John with incredulity. "You don't understand, John."

"Then make me understand, Sherlock," he slowly asks, trying to interrupt his friend's mania.

With a deep sigh, avoiding a knee-high glass table, he tosses himself back on the couch with a grimace. "It'd take far too long, besides it touches on some things' I'd rather not get into tonight," he glances out a window, and corrects himself, "this morning. I just hate being pent in."

Relieved that the dynamo seemed to be winding to a stop, John stands and continues the exploration his eyes had begun. He walks through a door into a huge bathroom, sanitary facilities separated from a giant bath large enough for three or four to party comfortably "At least if we're shut in for the day, it's definitely a gilded cage we've been given" his voice echoes.

He returns to the other room, his face a bit stunned. "There's a stained-glass window in the loo. It's bloody big enough to play football." Shaking his head as if to clear the impossibility, he returns to the former subject. "Besides, Alexandra didn't say we couldn't leave, just to let someone know so they could turn off the alarm. Understandable, with all this," he waves his hand around.

Sherlock let's his scorn be known with a snort. "Alexandra, is it? I'd like to see what excuses they come up with if we did try to leave."

"Yes," John yawns, a long drawn out affair that involves his whole body and halts the conversation for a moment. He shakes a chill off, and re-starts. "Yes, Alexandra, she did ask us to use her given name earlier."

"I suppose she is rather pretty," Sherlock opines.

"Pretty? That's an understatement, Sherlock. But I suppose you don't notice the beauty of the fairer sex?"

"Oh, I noticed," he states to John's surprise. "I just don't let it rule my decision making process."

"Meaning, I do?"

Sherlock just gives him what John had begun calling 'the look'. The one that regulates the rest of the world to lesser mental beings, especially the one's before him at the moment 'the look' is engaged. John's seen it a lot, and expects to, for the foreseeable future.

With a shrug of his shoulders to indicate that he was not concerned with Sherlock's opinion on his intellectual short-comings and aesthetic tastes, he returns to his scrutiny of the rooms. He stops at another door, one hand pressing down lever handle and follows the sturdy door inward.

"Oh, wow!" he exclaims from inside.

Sherlock looks up, but doesn't comment, still bothered by his fraternal speculations.

John pokes his head back into the sitting room, "Sherlock!" he raises his voice to grab his friends wandered attention. "I think I've found your bedroom," his tenor showing obvious humour.

"Oh?" he queries, an eyebrow raised. "How did you manage to deduce this revelation? Place cards?"

John just smiles as his finger curls to draw Sherlock over.

Intrigued against his will, he stirs from the sofa. His slow movement instead of bounding about, the only obvious sign of the previous evening's tribulations. Joining his friend in 'his' room, he finds a spacious bedroom, the burgundy theme of the suite continued, this time blended with blue to create a soothingly dark room, especially with the heavy curtains drawn.

The object that obviously clued John as to the rooms intended occupant, takes a place of precedence on the large poster-bed; his violin, at least it appears to be his hard-shell violin case. He stalks to the bed, flicks open the latches, and lifts the lid to reveal the familiar blue interior and his favoured panacea.

Running a loving hand over the wood, he closes and seals the case. Taking it in hand, he moves the violin to a nearly bare mahogany dressing table and sets it gently down. Flinging open a nearby matching armoire, he finds it occupied with some of his clothing. "I see our hostess has thought of everything, including raiding our closets."

At that, John's grin at having got one over on Sherlock fades and he speeds out the room, towards the only other interior door in the suite. Rushing through, he barely notices the elegance or burgundy and gold colouring, his attention is for the furniture bearing what he quickly finds to be a good portion of his own clothing, neatly hung and folded. A bit deflated, he leans against a large walnut bedpost, looking about the…his…bedroom. Everything he'd need for an extended stay, including his laptop sitting at a small desk, plugged and charging.

He shakes his head, trying to clear an already fogged mind, and returns to the sitting room, finding Sherlock back at his spot on the sofa, he drops into the chair across from him.

"So what do we do?" a bemused John asks.

"I suppose we could try our own version of _The Great Escape, but I seem to have lost my digging spoon. Besides, it's been a long couple of days. We might as well get some rest in relative safety," he suggests, with a bit of emphasis on the word 'relative'._

"_I have a late shift at the clinic, today. Might gives us a chance to see just how free we really are. After a bit of sleep and a good meal."_

"_Ah yes, dietary concerns must guide our course of action. So we have a plan. When are you due in?"_

"_Half-three."_

"_That gives you about six hours to sleep. We'd best be about it, then. Good night," he glances out the window as he rises, "make that good morning." With that, he abruptly leaves for his room, softly shutting the door behind him._

"_Morning," John answers to the closed door. He releases a deep sigh and stretches, his muscles protesting their earlier abuse, then makes for the toilet before heading to his rest._


	5. Prelude

**Sorry it's been a bit longer than I expected but here we are. Reviews and critiques are loved!**

He had planned on just resting, but his battered body had betrayed him and it was to a soft knocking on the bedroom door that awakened him from a deep and dreamless sleep.

The knocking became harder as the previous went unanswered.

With a disgusted moan, Sherlock throw's his covers off and slips off the bed, "alright, already, I'm up." Opening the door just a bit, he shows an overly perky John that he'd managed to change into pyjama bottoms before he crashed.

"Must you be so damned chipper?"

"I'm alive, the sun is shining, it's warm for March, I've had a nice lunch and I'm leaving for the clinic in half an hour."

"How did you manage that?:

"There were some heated negotiations, but I finally wore them down."

"Oh," quirked a dark brown eyebrow, "I wasn't aware diplomacy was one of your skills."

"It comes from dealing with upper-class matrons with hypochondria, I used the highly irregular device of asking politely. To my surprise, I was told it's all tickety-boo."

Sherlock observes his joviality, it appears slightly forced. He lets his silence draw out.

John knows exactly what his friend is doing, and attempts serenity, but his body jerks slightly in his mental unease.

Sherlock finally replies with a drawn out, "and?"

John hesitates. "I have to have a body guard," is his frustrated reply.

"Is that all? Just the one?"

Quite surprised at Sherlock's equanimity; he'd repressed his own frustration, since he foresaw a bit of a protest, he half expected to run interference. Sherlock's lack of reaction released his annoyance, "all? How am I supposed to treat patients with some lumbering hulk following me around?"

"I doubt the guard will be with you in the treatment rooms," he chuckles.

"It's not funny. It's going to interfere with my job. God only knows how Sarah's going to react to this…this invasion!"

Sherlock leans against the door jam, still tired. "It wont be like taking the beaches at Normandy. It's better than an invasion by _his_ organization."

The slight emphasis on 'his' leaves no question as to who it references.

Sherlock continues, "I am surprised you're getting away with only one keeper."

"I don't need a keeper!" John counters, almost petulantly.

"Until we know his disposition, I fear it's for the best, John."

Flinching as the pointed reminder of his earlier helplessness in the plastique coat, he capitulates, his body drooping.

Sherlock pushes from his support, "let me attend to my afternoon ablutions."

John backs out of his way, "how's your head? Any nausea?"

"Like elephants dancing Swan Lake on my skull," he pauses for a moment, "I do believe my brain is operating at it's standard efficiency. No nausea, but a shower will do a world of good."

Shaking his head at his roommate, John heads to the chair he'd claimed and retrieves a half-full teacup. Leaning to call out, "you are going to love the shower."

"I'll be out in seven minutes," the voice echoes from the cavernous bathroom. The door closes, shutting off all sound from inside.

"Bet you take longer," John replies to the air.

Twelve minutes later, the door opens, a cloud of steam precedes Sherlock, a white, fluffy robe wrapped around his newly cleansed body. Completely refreshed, neatly shaved; his slightly damp curls laying closer to his head than usual.

'Ha!" John exclaims, glancing at his watch as he chuckles, I knew that shower would interrupt your normal shower schedule."

Sherlock shrugs in acknowledgement. "Quite an experience. I estimate that even with the multiple jets and waterfall, that it utilizes less water than ours at 221."

John just shakes his head, though relieved that his friend's mind seems to be back in standard form, his observations and calculations in fine working order. "And that's important, how?"

"Any information about our good hostess is important."

"And what does the shower's water flow tell you?"

"That, added with the type of glass used in the windows, the LED lighting and the hybrid engine on the limo equals energy and money efficiency, and I don't think it's for the cost savings. So our hostess is concerned about the environment.

"A lot of people are, Sherlock."

"No, a lot of people _say_ they are, but few really do much about it beyond switching a few light bulbs and maybe having a low-flow toilet, While changing a few fixtures is easy and fairly inexpensive, the alterations needed for some of this technology on a home this old is extensive." His minor rant over, Sherlock heads to his bedroom. "Give me a moment."

He leaves his door open, while continuing the conversation as he dresses.

"What puzzles me, is where she got the LED bulbs that are illuminating the whole room, I didn't think that they'd solved that little problem."

"What problem, Sherlock?" he asks, absently, as he grabs the morning's paper and peruses the day's headlines.

"The lack of light dispersement you get with led's, you can't light a wide area. Well, couldn't. I doubt these are on the market."

"Oh," is John's absent reaction, having found a story that captures his attention. "We're in the paper, Sherlock."

Sherlock's tousled head pop's out the room with a shocked, "what?"

"Well, not us specifically, but the recreation centre is, 'authorities are not speculating as to it's cause without further investigations. It is unknown whether anyone was injured or killed, as the police spokesman answered with vague dissembling.' so I guess we're a 'no comment'."

"Ah, good. We don't want to give away our advantage," relieved, he pulls his mostly dressed body back into his room.

"I get that, but do you think Moriarty survived?"

"That is something we need to find out," Sherlock states as he strides into the sitting room, swinging a jacket over a blue shirt. He's to the door exiting the rooms as he throws, "aren't you coming?" behind him.

John hurriedly folds the paper and rushes after him, grabbing a jacket to wear over his brown jumper.

They re-trace their earlier footsteps down the hall and elaborate staircase, where they find their hostess chatting with a lovely young woman in a black mackintosh and knee-high boots.

"…try not to kill anyone, we need information, but safety is paramount," Alexandra finishes.

"Standard guard detail, yes ma'am," the brunette answer's, a small head nod accompany's her affirmative as she moves away and stations herself near the front door.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," greets their hostess. Dressed in beige breeches, brown riding boots, with a white, un-tucked blouse, she looked as if she'd just come from a hack show. Her black tresses gathered up in a ponytail, swing as she turns to them, revealing a face with light make-up, beautiful with it's almost perfect symmetry, high cheek bones and slight cupid's bow lips. Her boots place her head equal with Sherlock.

"I hope you rested well?" she inquires.

"Surprising well," Sherlock answers as his frantic pace faltering as it comes upon the calm that seems to surround her presence.

"Your brother's been ringing round since eight this morning."

At the mention of Mycroft, a brief frown flashes over his normally reserved face. "Oh?" he replies in feigned disinterest.

"I told him you were fine, but he wishes to speak to you, himself. I do believe he's reconsidering my involvement and contemplating taking a more _active_ roll."

Sherlock and John exchange a quick glance to one and other, her emphasis on active indicates her personal acquaintance with the sedate older Holmes.

"Just how did you come to be involved?" Sherlock questions directly.

She quirks her head slightly to the right in what was becoming a familiar gesture when deliberating. "Come with me." She turns on her heel, and strides away.

They follow, down a hallway towards the back of the house, passing doorways and doors leading to other rooms. An opening to the left and another hallway, until they come upon a large metal door without a handle. A panel to the right side of the door with a rounded metal projection about a centimetre out, a rounded cylinder at slightly above shoulder height.

Alexandra leans a bit down, placing her right eye before the panel, after a moment there's a slight whoosh as the door slides open.

She leads them inside the large room, it's light dimmed, but area's of illumination come from the multiple terminals about the room and the huge screen on the wall opposite the door they entered from.

The image on the screen, obviously taken from a CCTV, of a mussed but still living, Moriarty, arrests Sherlock's attention.

"So he's still alive," he states after a moment.

"Afraid so," she replies, as both her and John look at Sherlock.

Another moment, his face completely devoid of all emotion and in a cold, chilling voice, returns, "Good."

**So now we know! What will become of our friends? Will they live? Will they die? Will anyone ever sleep with anyone else? These answers and more, same bat time….same bat channel.**


	6. Questions

"Good"

Sherlock walks further in, down two steps from the entry platform into the room and closer to the 2 metre-wide screen with the visage of Moriarty.

John and Alexandra exchange worried looks, then follow behind him.

Sherlock scrutinizes the screen, absorbing every detail, from the time stamp to the mobile phone in his adversary's hand.

"Twelve-twenty-five. Approximately ten minutes after the explosion." he nods to the screen showing the time at '00.25' and location 'Alderman's Hill 047'.

Alexandra moves to a young man sitting at a computer terminal, leans down and quietly talks. "We followed him as far as we could on the CCTV," as she walks to Sherlock's side. On the plasma screen, scenes change as it follows Moriarty's progress. He continues down the street as he talks on the phone. Six minutes later a car appears and he rushes inside. The cameras continue to show the car from different vantages and angels. "The car took High Road to High Street, where the cameras lost any images of it or Moriarty."

"And since then?"

"We've not found anything on him, nor has anyone else."

"Else?" Sherlock queries.

"Scotland yard, MI-5, MI-6, the National Crime Intelligence Service out of SOCA, and, " she looks at him pointedly, "your brother."

A small beep sounds and she turns to the rooms door, it opens and the woman from the foyer enters. She moves to Alexandra and whispers.

Alexandra turns, "Dr. Watson, this is Amanda and she's your protection detail for today. I doubt that anything untoward will happen today, but if she gives you an order, I expect you to follow it." She gives him a look he'd not seen since his mother had caught him with a bottle of cider at age fourteen in a voice that brought his soldier's spine to attention. "Am I understood?"

"Yes, ma'am!" he barks out, barely managing not to salute.

"Fine, then." She walks to a table alongside the back wall, pulling a clear, plastic tray from one of it's drawers. Inside are two hi-tech mobiles. Grabbing the silver one, she returns and hands it to John. "This has been programmed with your number and we've transferred all the data from yours. Internet and still and video filming. It also cannot be traced."

She smiles at his surprise. "Best to keep the bad guys guessing." She waves her hand for him to head out. "If nothing interferes, we'll be having dinner at half eight." A quick nod to Amanda, who heads to the door.

"Um, thank you," he manages. Looking to his still rapt roommate, he proffers, "well, then, I guess I'm going. Sherlock?"

Sherlock waves a languid hand, not bothering to turn around, "right, see you later."

At this, with a resigned shake of his head, John follows his guard out the door.

They stand there, Sherlock still observing the CCTV footage, Alexandra observing him.

After a few quiet minutes, he shakes his head and turns to the woman watching him, "you were going to tell me how you became involved in all of this." His eyes bore into hers, daring her not to answer or lie.

Steadily, she returns his gaze, then a soft, "if I could have the room?"

Three men and a woman rise from their stations and quickly leave.

She lifts her left wrist, upon which sits what appears to be an overly large wristwatch with a very small keyboard. Pressing a few buttons, the main screen alters. A view of a large room with extensive and some un-identifiable equipment appears.

"I first became aware of some very unusual criminal activity in Vienna. Missing people and bizarre thefts. It was the use of a certain technology that got me concerned."

At the rise of an eyebrow, she continues, pointing to the screen. "The equipment you see there was found not many kilometres from my home in Vienna, it should have been in Switzerland; along with a scientist from my company who'd supposedly been killed in a horrible aeroplane accident." Another button and the screen changes to charred and sodden remnants of a crashed plane.

"What technology?"

"Some proprietary equipment and research. It's probably best to show you." With this she turns away, snatching the black phone from the plastic case and handing it to Sherlock. Gliding to the door, she waves a hand over a sensor and leads them out.

As soon as they enter the hallway, his new mobile begins to ring.

"That will be your brother."

"How did he know to call now?"

"He's probably been ringing for quite a while, the tac room is shielded."

At a resigned Sherlock answer's the phone, Alexandra nods to the evicted techs and they re-enter the darkened room. She moves away to give him the semblance of privacy.

"Of course it's me, you called my number," he listens for a moment, "absolutely not, I'm not getting stuck in some gulag, just for your piece of mind. I'm fine bye the way."

His face becomes more set, "that would be the obvious move, Mycroft. That would be the first place they'd look." Sherlock looks up to his hostess down the hall. "Why can't I stay here?" he asks, just to be contrary. He stands there, listening to the tirade from the other end. Finally, "hold on."

Sherlock walks to Alexandra and hands her the phone.

Putting a finger to her lips, she places it on speaker. "Mycroft?"

"It appears my idiot brother prefers to be there," he begins in an aggravated voice.

"He's welcome as long as he wishes."

"He'd be safer under my protection."

"That ended when you were unable to keep him from being beaten up when he was seven."

At this, Sherlock starts.

"How did you…" returns Mycroft, "never mind. I'll send you some of my people."

"Don't bother, we're quite capable of keeping your brother safe."

"I insist."

A wry grin, and she shoots back, "Insist away. It'll only raise your blood pressure. And I advise you to not to try and access my premises. I've better and more dangerous security than Buckingham Palace and the Tower combined."

"All right. I'll leave him there, for now. But if anything happens…"

"Why all of this buyer's remorse, Mycroft? You're the one who called me in."

This phrase confirms some of Sherlock's theories.

"Just take care. I don't think you'd like me to reveal what I know about you."

"Don't threaten me, Mycroft," she states in a calm voice cold enough to freeze a volcano. "What you think you know of me and the reality a farther than you can conceive. Don't test me, you'd not like the outcome." With this, she ends the call, looking to Sherlock as she returns the mobile.

"So my brother called you?"

"Yes, I'd let it be known of my interest in certain parties. When Moriarty's name popped up, your brother called me."

"So he knows you?"

"He thinks he does. He can be an insufferable prat at times."

"I see you know him, too."

"For a few years, we've allied in certain non-domestic incidents. But what were we doing before he rudely interrupted us….oh yes." She leads off, back the way they came, then down a different corridor to a pair of lift doors. A sensor opens the doors and they enter.

Doors close, a scanning light along each side of the wall runs from ceiling to floor. A soft, feminine voice asks, "visitor authorization?"

Alexandra replies with a phrase sounding quite a bit like gaelic.

A panel slides down to reveal a pocket in the smooth metal of the wall and show buttons with strange symbols. Pressing one, there's no feeling of movement, but the symbols change rapidly. After a moment, the doors open to a cavernous space, with rough rock walls.

Sherlock is unable to see to the far side, due to distance and lighting. As he follows Alexandra, each separate area lights when they approach and dim as they leave. They pass all sorts of strange equipment and devices until they shift to the right. As the area lights, he observes there are painted area's along the floor, in green, yellow and red bands about 4 metres deep and 6 metres wide.

Alexandra goes to a computerized console on wheels and sits on a stool, click a few buttons. Rising, she turns, "walk forward into the yellow zone, but don't go into the red."

Sherlock shrugs, as many experiments as he'd done on others, it appears it's his turn. As he moves across the green paint, he feels a strange sensation. Looking back at Alexandra, she nods her head. He continues into the yellow area, where he feels even stranger, physiologically, the hair on his arms and back of the neck rise and a mild feeling of panic begins. Suddenly, it all stops, and he hears a few clicks of a keyboard.

He steps back out and returns, "and the red zone?"

Silently she clicks keys again, hands him a cricket ball and points to the large black 'X' on the wall beyond the red area.

With a bit of a wined-up, he beams it at the mark, only to see it disappear half-way across the red zone.

"That's quite…impressive."

"Sonic aversion field in the yellow zone, disintegrator field in the red." She power's down the console.

"That was stolen?"

"Yes, and some other tech as well," she answers, turning about and heading back to the lift.

Sherlock follows in silence, his thoughts swimming as they return to the ground level of what is obviously a huge complex.

She leads him to a back patio overlooking a well stocked garden, mostly in green at the moment, but some colour from early flowering plants.

A luncheon was set upon an wrought iron table with settings for two.

Feeling an unusual gallant reflex, he seats his hostess, before taking the seat next to her.

She looks into his eyes, and with a quick nod in the positive, declares, "eat. You need to build up red cells and your not likely to lose it at this point. Your eyes are back to normal."

With a slight grimace, he begins to survey the small supper placed on. Grabbing a few items to appease his hostess, "I have some questions."

"I thought you might," she returns with a smile.

"Just _who are you?"_

"_Whomever I need to be."_

"_You know what I mean," he rejoins gruffly. "I know you're a doctor of abnormal psychology, you have your own private army, you seem to be an industrialist, and your not afraid of my brother."_

"_All true," she answers as she places some spinach salad and fish on her plate. A liveried man enters the porch, a bottle of white whine. At her nod, he pours her glass half-way. _

_Sherlock shakes his head, instead pouring himself a cup of tea._

_Once they are alone, she continues, "As I said, all true. I hold a few doctorates in neural and psychological _

_science as well as astrophysics." At his surprise, she laughs. "I know, couldn't get much further afield. But not really, those are the few area's still left with so many questions, just opposite ends of the spectrum."_

"_And Ravenna Industries?" he asks, not realizing that while they've been speaking, he'd been eating with more vigour than his want._

"_A multi-national conglomeration, with subsidiaries in pharmacology, avionics, renewable resources, habitat restoration, well, a whole host of areas."_

_She sits there in silence as Sherlock refills his plate. "And I don't have an army." At his quizzical look, she continues, "just a few employees with very specialized skills."_

_Sherlock shakes his head at her semantics._

"_As for your brother, I've been up against far worse than he."_

"_Really?" Sherlock asks, quite surprised._

_A look of reflective sternness crosses her face, "really."_

"_And?"_

"_They are no longer a problem. To anyone."_

_In the back of another non-descript vehicle, John Watson sits in mental discomfort. Trying to ease it, and pass the time, he turns to the woman beside him. "So, Amanda is it?"_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_Oh, you don't have to call me sir, it's John."_

"_Yes, sir."_

_He heaves a deep sigh, recognizing the military mind-set._

"_How long have you been with Dr. Ravenna?"_

"_Ten years."_

"_Ten?" he sputters. "You hardly look twenty-five."_

"_I'm a bit older than that, sir. I sort of inherited it. My family's served her…hers for generations."_

_John notices the slight change of her statement and attempts to dig for more. "And is she a good employer?"_

"_We've died for her, sir." _

_This effectively ends the conversation for the rest of the ride. As they pull around to the back of the clinic, Amanda exit's the vehicle, a hand to block him until she visually checks the area. A quick tap on a small ear-bud and she asks, "anything?_

_At an inaudible to John, reply, she rushes him in the back, the auto pulling quickly away._


	7. Interlude

**A/N Hello, faithful readers. Slowly and painfully, this storyline is opening itself to me, I hope you've been enjoying it. Remember, reviews are like Nan's homemade biscuits, they are love!**

"This is quite irregular, John. Neither I nor our patients are used to armed guards in the surgery," a woman's frustrated voice carries out to the black-clad woman standing in the hall, relaxed but aware.

"I'm sorry, Sarah, it was this or I couldn't be here today. It's not my idea of a good time, myself," grumbles John Watson.

"Well, then. We'll just have to make do, I guess. I wish you wouldn't keep getting yourself into such trouble."

"Wasn't really my choice. If you'd rather, I could leave."

"No, John, no. It's that I just worry."

"Sorry," he returns, meekly.

"No, if you didn't go rushing off into danger, you wouldn't be you."

"I wasn't rushing, I was coming to tea," he responded.

"Yes, I gathered," she replied, and, in a brisker voice, "there's a gentleman in examination 4. We'll talk about this later," she relents.

As John leaves her office, Amanda follows behind, a dark shadow passing through the halls.

She quickly check's room four, and leaves the doctor to his work as she stands outside, opening a mobile.

Sherlock quietly enters the parlour, Alexandra at the desk, waving a piece of a5 cardstock, drying the ink from the lowered fountain pen.

"Have a nice rest?" she queries, her back to him.

"Not particularly. I hate waiting."

She turns around, slipping the card into an envelope, sealing it with a wet sponge. Pressing something under the desk. "Until something new develops, all we have is following old leads and waiting for him to pull something new. That is best handled by those with less of a target on their back."

"I know. But I hate being bored!"

At this, Gunthar enters with a soft knock. "Madame?"

"Please have this delivered," she walks and hands him the envelope, Sherlock glimpsing the addressee.

At his mistress's, "thank you," he nods and exits.

She looks at her guest, draped over a chair, "c'mon."

"What for?" he questions, languidly.

"Let's see if we can do something about your boredom."

At this he leaps up, following closely behind, eager to find some distraction.

Back to the elevator, the enter, this time there's just the scan and the panel pops open. Pressing a button near the top, there's just a moment before the lift doors open. Two signs and two directions, one for a 'gym' and one for a 'range'.

"I suppose they'll be company for supper, Sherlock states.

"You saw the invitation."

"The lift?"

"Has your biometrics scanned, you're now able to access all the public areas."

She leads him down the corridor to the range, arriving at a door with a palm scanner.

"Place your hand on the sensor plate, please."

A light transverses from top to bottom. At a questioning beep, she places her hand on it and a green light appears on the scanner as the door buzzes open. The scent of gun oil hits him as soon as he walks in.

A room to the left holds an arsenal a small country would envy. From small hand pistols like the Beretta, 9mm and .357 Glocks, Kel-tec's, SIG-P288, Colts and other's. The machine guns included HK-21, LSAT, Stoner LMG, MG4, MG3, and a lovely new HK121. Off against one rack were the standard AK-47 and M16 rifles.

It was the sniper rifles, the Winchester Magnum and the .50 BMG that really surprised him.

"Planning a war anytime soon?"

"No plans, as yet. I expect all of my people to keep their skills honed and current."

"All?"

"Yes, I advise against bearding Mrs. Walshtien in the kitchen, she's a mean one with a blade. So reign in any urge to experiment in her kitchen. If you need to, we've a chem lab."

"Is there anything you don't have here?"

She thinks for a moment, "we don't have a cricket round."

"Hmmn, such a sad lack. However do you bear it?"

"We manage. So choose you pleasure. Bullseye or Silhouette?"

Sherlock removes his jacket and absently on a counter and walks to the wall of handguns. "Silhouette," as he chooses a Dessert Eagle.

".357 coming right up," she announces, pulling open a drawer and removing a box of ammo. She opens another drawer and grabs another box, moving to the rack of pistols and pulls down a Beretta P4sc. She hands the appropriate box to Sherlock, opening the other onto the table. Slipping out the empty magazine, pulling back the slide catch and checking to make sure the barrel is empty and clear.

She lays her gun down and moves back to the gun rack, opening a couple of bins with extra empty magazines for both guns. Silently handing the magazines for the Eagle, she returns to her gun and bullets and begins loading the magazines.

Looking to see that Sherlock's progress has kept pace with hers, she hands him a tray for his gun and magazines.

Following her, she takes him down a hallway, opening the second door they come to. "Glasses?"

"Not necessary," he replies as he receives the ear protectors from her.

She flips a switch and the sound of fans ventilating the area before he covers his ears.

Placing another set of protectors on herself, she lights the range, pressing the button for the target hanger to come to the booth, she hooks the human shaped target and sets it to 30 metres. She waves him forward, he places the tray on the ledge and loads his gun as she moves to the booth next to his, repeating the process.

Gently but firmly injecting the magazine, pulling back the slide to chamber a bullet, she takes aim and joins her guest in decimating the targets before them.

Nearly half five and it had been a relatively quiet afternoon, when a young man in a black suit knocks on her door frame for entry.

"Yes?" Sarah asks.

"For you, doctor," he begins, handing over an envelope.

"Thank you," she returns, nonplussed as he immediately leaves.

Carefully slitting open a side of the envelope, she pulls out a hand calligraphied invitation to dinner. Reading it, she shakes her head and heads out to the intake nurse. "Is Dr. Watson with a patient?"

"No, ma'am, he's still in Exam 2, though."

Sarah walks to Exam 2, a brisk nod to the woman standing outside, gently raps on the door.

"Come in," John's familiar voice calls.

She quickly enters, John sees her stunned face, rises and moves to her.

"Is everything all right?"

Silently, she hands over the invitation.

John quickly reads:

Dear Dr. Sawyer,

I'm well aware of the imposition placing a guard in your clinic is and would like to begin to offer reparations. This is to invite you to my home for casual supper. No need to reply, if it is in the affirmative, just come with Dr, Watson and you will later be returned to either your home or vehicle location.

Sincerely,

Dr. Alexandra Ravenna

"Well?" John asks, "would you like to go?"

She looks at him, seeing his comfortable smile and answers, "why not, it might be interesting."

"Oh, it definitely will, she's the first person I've seen put Sherlock on his back foot."

"Truly?"

"Most assuredly."

"I certainly have to meet her, then."

Button down, the paper target heads towards Sherlock, the continues percussion from the booth beside him stops, and he's soon joined by Alexandra removing her ear protection.

He follows suit, pulling down his target from 75 metres, his bullet holes making a frowning face as well as a neat circle where the heart would be.

"Nice," she comments, "I don't know if it's art, but I like it." She grins at his surprise at her joviality.

"How did you do?" he counters, going to her vacated booth. Her target is already at the booth, he notices the valentine heart shape a little left of centre, with a punctured arrow through. "75 metres?" at her nod, he looks down at the pistol she'd been shooting, "I thought the effective range of the standard Berretta was 50 metres, much less the sub-compact."

"It is," she replies, "I just tend to hit what I am at," she nods down and he notices a perfectly executed 'X' across the groin quadrant.

Sherlock gives an involuntary wince, "remind me not to make you angry," he requests.

"No promises, though I'm not likely to take a gun to you if you just irritate me."

"Oh? What's more likely?"

"A bit of a throw around in the gym."

Sherlock grins, "no wonder my brother's wary of you, he does detest physical effort, so."

"And my vast network of personal retainers."

"You make it sound like you're a feudal lady."

"Oh, no." she laughs, "not for centuries."

He laughs with her as they gather up the pistols and empty magazines, heading back to the armoury. Inside is an elderly looking gentleman, sitting at a work table, pouring steaming metal into bullet mould.

She indicates he should place his tray next to hers on the counter. She waits for the man to set down the ladle before speaking, "Louis, if you would?"

"My pleasure, Miss. Anything else I can help you with?"

"No thank you, and Mrs Dabney?"

"Off visiting the girls, they're lovely, but we're hoping for a grandson this time," he answers with a wizened smile.

"Be sure and let me know, I'd hate to miss a natal day."

"You haven't yet, Miss."

"That's because I have such good keepers. Send Chloe my best."

"I will, Miss. Have a good evening."

"That is the plan. Don't work too late, can't have Mrs. Dabney at me for wearing you out."

The man's face blushes a bit, "oh she'd never do that, Miss."

"I'll not chance it," she replies with a grin.

"Then I shall finish this up, clean your guns and head for tea."

Alexandra sighs with feigned relief, "thank you. Good evening, then."

"Good evening, Miss, he then returns to his work, ladling metal into another bullet mould.

Alexandra grabs the jacket discarded earlier and tosses it to Sherlock. Catching it, he slips it on as they leave the range area and enter the lift.

This time, instead of a green scanning light, a purplish blue light falls from top to the floor. Then the lift indicators begin changing. The doors open to the main floor, as they exit, Sherlock asks, "the light was different this time?"

"Decontamination field. Removes just about anything nasty, in this case, GSR and blowback. She lifts her head, sniffing the air. "Dinner in an hour. I'm going to freshen up."

"I don't have anything formal," Sherlock states.

"It's casual, as long as your not starkers, you'll be fine."

He follows her up the stairs, she continues up another flight as he peels off to his rooms. Into the bathroom, looking at his face in the bright light, his head throbs just a bit. Moving his hand to the few sutures on his head, touching them with a wince. He notices a yellow sticky note on the wide mirror with Paracetamol written and a downward arrow, point to a bottle and an empty glass below.

He empties two tablets into his hand, takes the glass and fills it at one of the faucets. Swallowing, he sets the glass down, leaning on the counter, face closer to the glass. "What are you up to?" he quietly asks his reflection.

**Ah, a dinner party! Gosh how boring! Maybe not. And just who is this woman? I know, and I ain't tellen yet. Just a quick note, the more reviews I get, the faster I write. C'mon, folks, give me incentive! I'll give you a virtual hug!**


	8. Coincidence

**Here we go again, decided against the begining of the meet up between Sarah and Alexandra, was afraid of hitting catty territory. But if you want it, review and I'll see what I can do.**

"My goodness," exclaims Sarah as she places her white serviette beside her empty plate and pushes away from the table, "that was the most I've eaten in a while."

"I'll relay your complements to Mrs. Walshtien," she stands, taking her coffee to the other end of the room with the fireplace and comfortable chairs situated about.

The rest of the group move to join her, each finding a seat.

Sarah clears her throat, "Alexandra, do you practice medicine?"

"Only in an emergency. I travel too extensively for a regular practice."

John's head perks up, "really, what for?"

"Mostly business, personnel acquisitions, mainly, sometimes consultations."

"Medical?" Sarah inquires.

"Psychological."

"Alexandra consults with various law enforcement agencies," Sherlock interjects.

"I do suppose law-enforcement can be a stressful occupation," Sarah opines.

"True, but I'm there to profile criminal activity."

"Oh." She takes a more direct look at the mistress of the house, feeling a bit mousy and unexciting in comparison.

There is a moment of silence when a muffled ring of a mobile can be heard. Alexandra rises with an, "excuse me," and walks toward the dining table, pulling out a phone. "Ravenna here."

She listens for a moment, "Address? Hold on for a moment."

She turns to those still gathered, "Sherlock?" she catches his eye and tosses him the phone.

"Hello?" he inquires.

As he speaks to the phone, Alexandra is keying something on her wrist. After a frown, she quietly speaks into her wrist device.

A dark dressed man enters the room. She whispers to him and he hurriedly leaves.

"Let me check," he utters into the phone.

'How long?' he mouths across the room to Alexandra.

"Fifteen minutes to get there, so, give me twenty." She stalks out of the room, as Sherlock relays their eta.

Sherlock pulls John away for a quick conversation. "Stay here with Sarah. There's been a murder and Lestrade needs me there."

"I'll come with you," John offers, eager for some action.

"No, stay here, the victim's name is Sarah Sawyer, and I don't believe in coincidence."

At John's shock, Sherlock nods.

Less the four minutes pass when Alexandra returns, no longer in black dress slacks and a cobalt blouse. She now wears a black, zippered, leather jumpsuit, and four centimetre high heeled boots; complete with a dual shoulder holster and pistols.

"That's different," comments John.

"But comfortable," she returns. "Dr. Sawyer, I have to ask you to stay here for the moment."

"Whatever for?"

"The victim we're going to see happens to have the same name as yours, and until we can discern your danger, it's safest if you stay here."

At a jerky nod, Alexandra about faces and strides into the foyer, where Gunthar stands, two coats on his arm as she and Sherlock approaches, he hands his over and helps her on with her leather long coat.

Quickly out the door, a black Aston Martin sits in the drive, Sherlock enters on the passengers side as Alexandra circles the auto and slips behind the wheel and pulls out.

Driving through the gate, Sherlock watches her as she drives. "No guards?"

"As long as you agree to follow my instructions, there shouldn't be a need. But cross me and I'll bury you in security."

"Nice vehicle, running a little low to the ground, armoured?"

"Bullet-proof glass as well."

"There's no such thing as proof, resistant, maybe."

"Yes there is."

"Ah, more of your company's tech?" he asks sardonically.

"Of course, if my company can't keep me ticking, it's unlikely to survive. They do so like coming up with interesting innovations."

"Innovations?"

"Protection and stealth, mostly, the engine's had a few alterations, as well. Hopefully they wont be necessary, but it's there if I need it."

"You don't do anything, half-way, do you?" asks an impressed Sherlock.

"Mediocrity is for lazy minds, I try to do everything well."

At his raised eyebrow, she shrugs and puts her full attention on the drive to the crime scene.

Blue lights strobe over the neighbourhood, bright lights set up outside the victim's home, yellow police tape demarking the barrier to the public.

The Aston Martin pulls into an empty space nearby, two tall individuals exit the vehicle almost as one, a piercing beep indicting the auto's security system engagement.

Walking up to a dark-skinned woman wearing standard female detective mufti, an unattractive skirt and jacket in brown, a cream blouse slightly wrinkled. "Oh, goody, the circus is in town. Hello, Freak, who's your new friend?"

"Ah, Sgt. Donavan, what an indifferent pleasure to see you again," Sherlock lazily comments, lifting the yellow tape to allow himself and Alexandra under.

"Hold a moment, you can't bring your date to the crime scene, beside, I thought you swung the other way," she retorts, cuttingly.

"That will teach you to make suppositions without data, Sally," he cynically follows.

Her face writhes in frustration, "you still can't take her in."

At this moment, Alexandra pulls a leather folding wallet out and flashes it at the detective.

A document she'd only scene replica's of, surprises her as she quietly stands aside, anger evident on her face.

A quick glance at what had startled Sally so and Sherlock chuckles, "you could get in to see the Queen with that at half three in the morning."

"Not likely though," Alexandra states, "those corgis' don't like me for some reason."

Laughing, he moves towards the two-story house, as if a switch is pulled, Sherlock's attention hones firmly on the surrounding areas as they head to the entranceway. Passing milling officers and techs, they go past the splintered door.

The interior is brightly light with standing halogens, cords leading upstairs where there's an obvious argument going on.

"I don't see why we have to put up with that psychopath! This is just ridiculous, it's obvious what happened here!"

A calm murmur follows, too quiet to hear downstairs, but the stomping that follow's isn't.

Quickly making their way upstairs, Sherlock in the lead, they come upon a man in a blue paper romper. At his glare, Sherlock gives him an oversized smile, meant to aggravate the technician even more, "good evening Anderson."

"Don't mess with the scene, Holmes."

"I'm sure you've made a mess enough without me. Lestrade inside?" Sherlock asks, pointing to a closed door.

"He's waiting for you," he responds, glancing at the woman standing behind his nemesis, "who's that?"

"My bodyguard," he returns, a large grin on his face.

Anderson's face takes on a mask of false joviality, "you need a woman to protect you?" he mocks, his hand moving up to poke Sherlock in the shoulder.

Faster than he can believe, he's kneeling on the carpet, arm wrenched up behind him, with his hand in a painful thumb-lock.

The commotion brings Lestrade out of the room to see Sherlock bend over, his face next to Anderson's.

'"Very bad idea, that."

"Dr. Ravenna, if you would?" a tired Lestrade requests.

"Certainly, Detective Inspector," she releases the man before her, giving him an icy stare.

"I…" he begins to complain as Lestrade cuts him off.

"Just go downstairs, start on the door."

Mouth snapping shut, he storms away, his footsteps hard on the stairs.

"I really wish you'd stop antagonizing my people, I do have to work with them on a regular basis."

"I didn't do anything, besides, it's not important, shall we see what we have?" he asks, moving past Lestrade into the bedroom.

The other two follow him in, watching him peruse the room and check the body lying in the floor. Pulling a small magnifying glass, he check over every little aspect of the crime, from the wounds on the woman to her fingernails.

Snapping the magnifying glass closed, he asks, "Alexandra?"

"You've taken photo's and samples?" she inquires of Lestrade.

"Yes, go ahead."

Alexandra bends down to check the corpse, who's laying on her back, noticing the indentations on her face.

She after visually checking the available portion, she open's her mouth a bit, inhaling. She check over the body more carefully, finally asking for help to turn her over.

Lestrade moves to assist, him wearing latex gloves, her in leather.

She carefully parts the hair at the back of her head, Finding what she was looking for, she stands, "death by suffocation, petechial haemorrhaging in the eyes, very large hands, with a post mortem low calibre gunshot to the back of the head.

"As I suspected, though the gunshot is a bit overkill," Sherlock replies.

Alexandra wanders around the room, as if looking for something, peering out the window, the blue strobing lights flicker across her face. Suddenly she turns and heads towards the back of the floor, into the half-bath attached to the victim's room.

Returning to join the men, she waits for an opening.

"…female, forty-two to forty-five years of age, works in retail," as Sherlock stops to let that sink in.

"I'll be outside. Sherlock, don't go wandering off."

Getting his abrupt nod, she quickly leaves the room, feet lightly flying down the steps and out the door. She inhales deeply, as if clearing her lungs.

Just in time to hear, "….damned psychopath!" from a venomous Anderson to an attentive Sally.

"That's sociopath," a quiet voice of velvet and warm honey startles them.

Caught out, Sally tries to cover with an attack, "what's the matter, can't handle a dead body?'

"Oh, no," she counters, her voice still and calm, "I've made much worse messes myself a few times."

With this, she passes them both, moving around to the back of the house.

They trade intrigued but fearful looks, and slowly follow behind. As they pass by the back edge of the house, they hear her command, "stay back, you'll trample evidence."

Anderson huffs in frustration as Sally shakes her head.

They see her bend down to look closer at a patch of grass, wondering how she can see anything in this gloom.

Circling the grass she just checked, she moves over to a single level portion of the home, looking into a disused flower bed. She turns to the pair watching her and asks, "could one of you get Lestrade and Sherlock?"

Sally looks to Anderson, and seeing a resolute defiance, sighs heavily and retraces her steps to the front.

As Alexandra waits, she closely looks to the ground, as if following a trail, she comes to a large tree about two metres away from the house careful to stay to the left.

"We're going to need some lights back here," she calls to Anderson, who walks off in a huff.

Soon a large party of individuals arrive, lead by Sherlock. Before he passes the end of the house, he grabs a bright light stand and sets it down hear the mound of grass Alexandra stopped by. Making his observations, he follows the prints to the flowerbed, checking the depth of the huge footprints, he looks up to the edge of the roof.

He turns and looks to Alexandra, stand by the tree. He waves for another light to be taken over to her, where he joins her. "Been busy I see."

"I'm a very good tracker," she points to the three set's of footprints on the other side of the tree. "There's also a strong scent of cologne in the air."

Sherlock sniffs the air, and looks down at the footprints, "the nine and a half's leaned against the tree, he's the source."

She nods in agreement, 'so, the roof?"

"Definitely," he agrees, then raises his voice to call out, "we need a ladder, Lestrade!"

"Wait," Alexandra counters, waving Lestrade to come over to join them under the tree.

The detective inspector looks indecisive for a moment, but then quickly heads towards them.

"I'm sure we all agree this isn't a random crime," Alexandra begins. "We don't know what's on that roof, or what might trigger something nasty."

"Your proposal?" asks an interested Sherlock.

She looks up into the tree, he follows her eye-line and nods. He begins to reach up when a mild slap on his shoulder interrupts him.

"Not you," she states.

At this he raises an eyebrow.

"You promised."

With a deep sigh, and muttering, "boring," he moves away.

Lestrade watches the interplay with wonderment. Then gallantly offers, "do you need a leg up?"

"No thank you," she answers as she backs up a few steps. She runs forward, leaping up and catching the lowest branch, legs swinging forward, then back, and forward again, as they circle the limb, leaving her balanced on top of it. Curling her legs back under the limb, she reaches up higher, grabbing the next as if working the uneven parallel bars.

Lestrade stands with his mouth open, as Sherlock leans against the tree, arms folded and watching.

Hands on the second branch, feet on the lower, she climbs a couple of metres upwards, until reaching a thick limb that almost reaches the roof. Looking over the roof, she sees nothing to be worried about, so she begins to run down the limb. It bends down and she uses it's momentum to spring her across to the roof. She lands with her knees bent to take the force and one hand down for balance.

Rising, she easily walks the roof's angle, looking every which way until she comes upon odd characters spray painted in yellow. She removes a mobile from a pocket and snaps a few pictures, then texts them.

A series of beeps below announce Sherlock's receipt of the text. As he flips through the images, Alexandra replaces her phone and removes a monocular scope, flipping a switch and engaging the night vision, she makes a quick 360 of the area about, only a quick intake of breath indicating her concern as she moves on to finish the sweep. Returning the scope, she then follow's the trail to the victim's bathroom window she'd found slightly open earlier.

Finished, she runs the apex of the first floor roof and flips off the edge to land softly a metre away from the house.

She quickly moves to a stunned Lestrade and occupied Sherlock, "one person definitely gained access through the second-story bathroom window, probably the shooter." She snaps her fingers in Lestrade's face to gain his attention and quietly states, "stay with Sherlock, don't let him out of your sight, no matter what."

With this she quietly runs west and disappears into the darkened foliage like some shadowy chameleon. The only evidence of her continued path is a quiet scrape of a boot as she manoeuvres the 1.5 metre wall around the yard.

Sherlock then looks up from his internet searching and notices he and Lestrade are alone, "Alexandra?"

**I'd like to thank those who have reviewed so far, they seem to like this and I haven't heard otherwise, so I'm going to continue in said fashion unless otherwise nudged. I don't mind criticizims, as long as they are constructive. How else am I gonna larn? ; reviews = 3**


	9. Follow

**Ok, my freaky darlings, here's the next chapter. Man it took me a while, thanks to Nicolle for the word a day challenge, she adds to this insanity. I'd love some reviews, complaints, mental ramblings, just let me know what you like and what you don't, I'm a work in progress and boy, so is this story. I hope you like, but if you don't and you don't tell me, well, you know how it is.**

Gunthar walks into the small dinning room, bearing a formal tea service. Setting it down, he looks to Sarah, "how do you take your, tea, doctor?"

"Two lumps, please."

He pours the tea into the cup, placing two cubes inside, handing it to the woman curled up on the sofa.

"Sir?"

"White, two sugars."

Following Dr. Watson's instructions, he fills the cup with milk, tea and two cubes. He passes the cup and saucer and lays a plate of biscuits on the table. "Do you require anything else?"

After getting negatives from both, he leaves the tray and exit's the room.

The two sip from their cups, sitting in silence.

Sarah finally breaches the subject that's been hanging for an hour, "John, just how much danger am I in?"

"I don't know, if it's Moriarty, I'm afraid you might be in a great deal of trouble. He's proven his complete lack of concern over anyone's life," he watches her face, and half- fearful asks, are you regretting our relationship?"

Her pause makes his stomach flutter, but she slowly begins, "no, I'd just rather not have to worry about murderous psycho's every other week," she weakly jokes.

"I'm so sorry," he offers, putting down his cup and pulling her into the safety of his arms.

A discreet knock on the door and the bald Gunthar pokes his head in, "if you would excuse me sir, madam, we have a room prepared for Dr. Sawyer."

Still snuggles together, John asks, "would you like to get some rest?"

"I don't think I can, but is there something we can do, maybe watch some telly?"

John looks to Gunthar, who nods, "in both suites, sir."

"Sounds good. Sarah, my suite or yours?"

"Yours, no, wait, where does he doss?"

Knowing to whom she's referring, he sighs, "we're sharing a suite, but separate bedrooms. If we don't want to be interrupted at all hour's, I'd suggest yours."

"All right.," she stands, placing her cup down, Grabbing his hand, she pulls him up, and they follow Gunthar up the stairs into a door just a metre or so across the hall from the burgundy suite the men inhabit.

Gunthar opens the door, allowing the two of them to enter. "Welcome to the mauve suite, ma'am."

As the two stand about, Gunthar moves to the low table in the sitting area, picking up a remote device, he presses a button, and a large picture against the wall moves downward into a recessed area, a large television screen hangs in it's place. "The television, all the standard channels, some satellite feeds, you can see them in the guide. If there's nothing to your liking, there's an extensive movie and television program database you can choose from, just press the library key here at the bottom of the remote."

He hands the remote to Sarah. Moving to a sturdy piece of furniture, he opens a door to reveal a small bottle cooler, stocked with soda and beer bottles. "If there is something you wish, in food or beverage, you can call for it on the telephone,' he points to a desk in the corner.

Moving to a closes door, he opens it, and with a wave of his hand, "your bedroom. There are night clothes in the wardrobe, some of your own personal items should be arriving shortly."

He walks to the exit, turns and asks, "is there anything else you require?"

Stunned at all of this luxury, Sarah just shakes her head.

"No thank you," John manages for the both of them.

"Very good," he nods, and quietly leaves the two of them alone, softly closing the door behind him.

Sarah moves about the cream and mauve room, hands trailing along furniture, trying to take it all in. She finally collapses on a couch, sighing, "I guess if I have to be cooped up, this is the place for it."

John squats down beside her, one arm on the couch for balance, looks into her eyes, "are you all right?"

She chuckles with a shudder, "I don't know, this is all so much to take in."

…

After searching the internet, concern appears on Sherlock's face, he looks up, finally noticing he and Lestrade are standing alone by the tree, "Alexandra?"

"She took off that way," Lestrade points into the bushes.

"Alone?"

"Yes, I doubt anyone could keep up with her."

At this. Sherlock runs past the gaggle of officers and techs, sprinting for the front.

"Wait for me, Sherlock!" calls the inspector, following behind.

At the front, Sherlock looks this way and that, frustration evident.

Bowling past, Lestrade pulls out a key fob, a chirrup, and the lights on a sedan flicker. "This way, I'll drive!"

They both spring into the auto, laying rubber on the tarmac as the wheels spin. "Why such a hurry?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock wiggles the phone in his direction, "characters on the roof, Cantonese, translates to 'where you stand is where you end'. I'm assuming Dr. Ravenna read it and is at this moment, headed into a trap meant for me."

Lestrade quickly looks to his passenger, he's the most concerned and emotional he's ever seen Sherlock, barring frustration at incompetence. "I see why she told me to stick with you."

"What?" indignant surprise obvious.

Quickly changing the subject, "so you think we're headed into a bit of trouble?"

"Most likely, I'd assume the five-story building, three blocks west of here, it's the highest vantage in the area."

At this, Lestrade radio's for assistance in the for of SFC.

…

**Barely panting, the leather clad woman barrels through the door, carefully checking the way before her. Pressing the lift call button, she waits, a ding, the door opens. Entering, she pulls a wicked looking knife from her boot, popping off the metal panel exposing the floor buttons and wires. A quick look, and she's pulling out one wire here, cutting and splicing two others with a quiet intake of air as she gets shocked.**

**Replacing the panel, she presses the top floor button and exit's before the doors can close. Running down the badly lit hallway, she hit's the stair doors at speed, not slowing until she comes to the top floor.**

**Two deep breathes, and her pants die away, she braces herself as she hears the bell announcing the lift's arrival.**

**Quietly pulling open the stairway door, she clings to the side of the wall. Quick as a cat, she pounces on the man just inside the lift, his back to hers. Tight pressure to nerve and blood vessels bring the almost twice her size male to the ground.**

**With quick efficiency, she pats him down, removing 9mm automatic, two knives and a phone. His face digging into the floor, she pulls his arms behind his back and with plastic zip ties, immobilizes his hands together.**

**That done, she looks for the roof access, finally finding it in a utility room at the back of the building. Metal rungs straight up the wall to a hatch in the ceiling. Carefully climbing, she tries to raise it, but something blocks her efforts.**

**Left hand on the top rung, her right goes to her neck, under her hair, she grabs a handle and unsheathes a blade from her coat. The wakizashi slips easily into the wooden hatch, finally coming to an obstacle. Pulling the blade back and then a fast slice where some sort of metal interferes with opening the trap-door, there's a loud, whining shriek as metal is parted, along with much of the hatch.**

**Sheathing the incredibly sharp blade. She gathers herself, flinging her legs up and through the door, up through the opening, rolling along the tarred and pebbled roof. Her antics hidden by a large metal heating unit, it's cacophony disguising her destruction. **

**Orienting herself with the victim's home, she moves east, a huddled shape laying along the edge. The man lay's there, eye to a scope attached to a sniper rifle. **

**Alexandra pulls a telescoping baton, a flick of the wrist opens it to it's full length as she springs forward, knocking the rifle away from the man. On it's return swing, she takes him against his shoulder, flinging him aside and onto his back. **

**Startled, he tries to draw a pistol from his waistband, but she lashes out and the gun flies away. **

**As she moves in to take him, she flinches to her left, just avoiding a huge hand grabbing her from behind.**

**Ducking down, she attempts a leg sweep, only to have her leg stop dead as it hits what feels like a tree. A shoulder roll takes her out of immediate harm and allows her to view her new opponent. A gigantic form, vaguely human shaped, lumbers after her, an evil leer as he reaches out to snag her in his hands.**

"**Been wondering when we'd find you. You've been a naughty Golem," she taunts, backing away from him. **

**The assassin grins, his face intent in his goal. He lunges forward, snatching her free arm, pulling her towards him. **

**She leans back, trying to slow her advance into his crushing grasp. Suddenly, her resistance ends and she flings herself towards him, and over his shoulder, his arm holding hers wrapped over his other, her hanging behind him. She throws the baton over his head, across his neck, legs digging into his back, holding on for dear life.**

…

**Hurrying into the building, Lestrade on his heels, Sherlock slides to a stop at the lift, pressing the call button numerous times. Noticing it not leaving the fifth floor, he looks about, finding a sign lit for the stairs. Following Alexandra's footsteps, they dash up the stairs.**

**Finding the trussed man, Lestrade radio's the particulars as Sherlock looks about. Finding the closet and ladder to the roof, the two climb up, Sherlock in the lead. **

**Looking about, they arrive in time to snag a distracted gunman, trying to sneak his way off the roof. Cuffing him, they attach him to a convenient iron bar.**

**Carefully moving around the building's ventilation and heating emplacements, they see a huge man, stumbling about the roof, trying to dislodge his obstinate burr before his passes out.**

**Bashing her up against some metal equipment, she grunts, but manages to hold on. Finally, he drops to his knees, and slowly falls forward. Holding on for a moment longer, she lets go, moving her hands as if they'd frozen closed.**

**With a groan, she moves off the man, getting out of reach, just in case, and leans against a vent, panting with exertion. **

"**Damn," an awed Lestrade utters.**

**Catching her breath, Alexandra answers with, "best get some manacles on him before he wakes up. I'm not going through that again." She wipes her brow, moving a stand of hair out of her face. **

"**We managed to get a third before he flew the coop," Sherlock informed her as he observed. He notices a slight tremor of her hand for a moment, then it stills. **

**With a deep inhale, she stands, shaking off her momentary weakness, standing tall and on her own. **

"**Are you all right?" Sherlock inquires.**

**Before she can answer, a wave of armed response officers pour onto the roof, taking control of the prisoners. **

**With a flip of her head pointing Sherlock back to the roof hatch, they leave the mopping up to the professionals. She motions for him to proceed her down.**

**A stubborn look crosses his face, but in her implacability, he starts down. **

**Waiting for him to reach the bottom and move out of the way, she lightly drops down, avoiding the climb. **

**Sherlock just observes, another facet adding to the puzzle that is Dr. Alexandra Ravenna.**


	10. Lull

Lestrade had a car take them back to the crime scene. They silently walked to her vehicle, climbing inside.

With a cheery wave to Sally Donavan, as Alexandra drives off, Sherlock turns and repeats his earlier question, "are you all right?"

She sits quietly for a moment, then answers with a sigh, "I'd have rather not resorted to violence."

"You are rather good a mayhem," Sherlock opines.

"Yes, but I prefer not to. Some beings just wont let you."

He watches her, concerned at her world-weary tone.

Scrubbing a hand over her face, she changes the subject. "So I'm assuming we both agree that he's targeting you?"

"So it appears."

"What exactly did he threaten you with?"

"I seem to recall the words 'I will burn the heart out of you'."

Sitting in silence, she keeps a watch in her mirror, driving through a high traffic area. She stops at a light, after it's change, turns down the next street, and when quickly turning again, she depresses an unlabelled button on the dash. A low whirring and crackle noise, and she slips into traffic, down even another street.

Passing the reflective surfaces of a small grocery, he notices something, "the colour's changed."

Alexandra, looking to the rear-view mirror, nods her head, "a small static charge alters the vehicle's paint, our number plate has switched as well. "

"Please tell me this does not become a submersible,"

"No, neither does it fly or have snow skis," she enumerates, her throaty chuckle strikes him in an odd place, inside, "not that I didn't have a boffin or two suggest that, and more. I had to rein them in before they added caltrops and oil sprays."

Sherlock looks around the interior, gazing at buttons and switches. "What, no ejection button?"

Alexandra pretends to search about, "ah, here it is," she exclaims, flipping a toggle, as liquid squirts upon the windscreen and cleaning blades flap back and forth. "Oh, guess they haven't had time to install."

He joins her in a companionable chuckle, easing the tension built from the evening's earlier escapades.

She lets a comfortable silence descend for a few minutes, as she drives into a more suburban area, before she returns to the difficult subject.

"He's trying to isolate you, either by you distancing yourself from your support or by chasing them away."

"Makes it quite dangerous to be involved with me."

"How would John react to the obvious threat to Dr. Sawyer if me and mine were not involved?"

Sherlock contemplates for a moment, "he'd be torn, wanting to protect Sarah, yet desiring to attack Moriarty, either choice would make him feel guilty, which would make him angry, which would lead to a disagreement between the two of us."

The silence that follows this line of deduction is strained. Sherlock realizing just how much he'd come to rely on John and how much his good opinion matters. Moriarty was right, as much as he might hate to admit it, he does have a heart to burn.

Alexandra interrupts his stream of thought by softly asking, "and if he manages to kill Dr. Sawyer?"

"The guilt would destroy John, and even if he said he didn't blame me, subconsciously he would." The next statement takes a minute to get out, one of the most difficult things he's ever done, to open his emotions to another human being. " I'd lose John as a friend, maybe not immediately, but fairly soon, and permanently."

Alexandra says nothing, giving Sherlock time to compose himself. It seems she's aware of how hard for him the admission was. She gives her attention to the driving, turning into the automatic gate, slowly driving up to the house. Parking, she pulls the keys from the ignition and turns to Sherlock. "We'll just have to keep that from happening."

Sherlock gives a quiet snort of disagreement, "the best thing I can do is to just stay away," he mutters fatalistically.

"Exactly."

His head jerks up in surprise, he'd not expected her to agree with him so readily, without even a token argument. It seemed suspiciously out of character. "Exactly?"

Her, 'how's your head?" disconcerted him even more, and didn't answer his question.

He stares at her, his confusion at her tangential comment more than evident. She just shakes her head and opens the car door. The thump and pressure pop as she closes it, brings him out of his distraction, quickly following her out and into the open door to the home.

The ever reliable Gunthar is assisting Alexandra out of her coat, a quick head bob and holds his hand out for Sherlock's woollen duster and scarf.

Divesting himself, he continues after her, into a hallway back to the large metal door to the tactics room. One eyeball pass by the approving sensor and they return to the darkened room they'd occupied earlier, this time there's only one person staffing the room, a young man in black trousers and white shirt and tie.

"Good evening, Marvin, what have we got?" Alexandra asks.

"Metro has identified two of the three suspects, only the Golem was placed at the victim's home, who's been charged with homicide. The others have been charged on 'various weapons infractions.' CCTV coverage is light in the area and there are no images of the suspects or our target available." Marvin presses a few keys at the terminal he occupies, throwing a mapped image of the dead woman's neighbourhood. There are two red circles shown.

"Oddly enough, two camera's were somehow taken offline minutes before the projected time the suspects should have arrived. We've got someone looking into that."

Alexandra and Sherlock glance at one and other, certain of the reason, if not the method. She turns to the young man and asks, "any requests from elsewhere?"

"None, as yet, ma'am."

"If we do, see about getting access to their info dump."

Marvin takes pen to paper and jots down a quick note, "yes, ma'am. Anything else?"

"We're going into conference one, send Dr. Watson in when he arrives."

At the young man's nod, she leads Sherlock to a door to the left of the wall screen, a dark room slowly becoming more visible as the lighting slowly brightens. There is a long light wooden table, surrounded by a mixture of wheeled and static, black and chrome, office chairs.

The door slowly closes behind them, Alexandra waves Sherlock to take his choice of seat as she moves to an armless chair, flipping it around so it's back is against the table and straddling it, moving stiffly and slowly.

Sherlock slips into a comfortably swivelling chair, noticing her careful movements. After a moment of silence, "what did you mean by 'exactly'?" he questions her earlier comment, again.

"The best way to keep John safe is to make it appear that your relationship has already been damaged," she begins, unzipping her boots and toeing them off under the table, "and this obvious attack on his lady-love has strained it even further."

"Moriarty is tenacious, I doubt a spat will be enough to draw him off."

"True, the more he keeps trying, he's likely to get lucky."

As she's speaking, the door opens and in comes Dr. Watson, followed by Gunthar with a tray of first aide supplies.

John moves down the table along the same side as Alexandra, sits, shifting the chair so he can see them both.

While this occurs, Alexandra straightens up, pulling the zipper to her jumpsuit down to her waist, stiffly slipping off the sleeves with Gunthar's assistance. Peeling it down over her bustier protecting her modesty, her man helps ease it down her back.

He tsks his resigned disapproval as he opens a bottle of peroxide, using a cotton ball to soak the liquid and apply it to the thin line of broken skin across her back.

She leans against the back of the chair, her face devoid of any reaction to what's going on behind her.

"Do you need any assistance?" John asks, taking in the wound and bruises beginning to colour.

Alexandra shakes her head, "no thank you, doctor, I've had worse coming off the salle."

Gunthar finishes up with some ointment and a large plaster, bending down to gather her boots and leaves the room.

"Who's getting lucky?" John asks.

"Moriarty," Sherlock answers.

"So he's the murderer?"

"Our old friend, Oskar Dzundza, did his usual. I'm afraid your Sarah is in danger."

"How are you going to find the Golem this time?"

"I don't need to, our resourceful hostess apprehended him," he nods to Alexandra across from him.

John looks at her back, with the realization of the origin of her injuries. He opens his mouth to ask more, but closes it at Sherlock's shaking of his head. "We were discussing our next move," the detective continues, 'you're not going to like it."

**Ooooo! Mysterious! Sorry this took so long and it's so short, faithful readers, life, as they say occurs, and into each life a little fecal matter hit's the rotary cooling device, at least into mine. Though brief, I hope you enjoy and I'm working on the next installment to our intrepid friends adventures. Sometimes brain work not….and this holiday lark is anything but….so have a joyous whatever your traditional or chosen end of year rituals and/or festivities may be, as for me, Wondrous Saturnalia! **


	11. Buttons

**Sorry ever so much this has taken oh so long, but I've been dealing with biblical plagues. I hope this doesn't disappoint, it's been hard to fit in and get back in the swing. I hope to have another chapter up soonest. **

Daylight pours through the window at Scotland Yard, dust motes floating in the air as the triad stalks past desks towards Detective Inspector Lestrade's office.

Sherlock strides past Sgt. Donavan into the empty office, throwing himself into a chair, hands steepled in front of him, John shrugs apologetically as he follows him in.

Sally picks up a phone and dials a few numbers, after a pause, she begins, "the freak's taken up residence in your office." She listens for a moment, then slams the receiver down in time to catch the icy glare from the third of their party, the odd woman from the night before.

Uncomfortable, she clears her throat. From some reckless place she get's the courage to ask, "so what's so interesting about the freak?"

"You mean, besides an incredible mind and perceptive abilities second to none? He's one of the dead sexiest men on the planet."

That said with utter conviction, she breezes past the stunned woman and joins the object of the surprising comments.

An astonished sergeant watches her lean down to Sherlock, words passing as he minutely leans towards her. A hand against his shoulder as she finishes and moves to lean against the windows facing outside.

At that moment, Lestrade comes striding into view and to his office, looking tired and harried, "I don't have anything new for you, Sherlock, we've not been able to get a word out of him." He flops into his chair, looking through messages and papers.

"Nothing at all?" Sherlock questions, pensively.

"We've gotten a Czech interpreter, and he's been offered council, but he's made no response."

Sherlock turns in his chair, with a glance at Alexandra, gets a slight nod. He returns to Lestrade and asks, "would it be alright if Alexandra questioned him?"

"She's got clearance, I can't see how it hurts anything. Donavan!" he yells.

She sticks her head into the office as John and Sherlock remove their coats, leaving them in the chairs.

"Take Sherlock and Dr. Ravenna to interview 2. Make sure there are guards on hand."

"Yes, sir," she returns, impatiently waiting.

"You two just go on, I'll wait out here," he remarks, pointing to the area outside of the Detective Inspector's office.

Sally leads them down the hall to a stairway, descending one level and into a more Spartan area.

They stop outside a room when Alexandra asks, "where should I secure my weapons?"

"How did you get weapons…." Sally begins to question as Alexandra taps her coat pocket.

"Right," heaving a large sigh, Sally retraces a few metres of steps and walks into a dark room, flipping a light, lockers, most still with keys inserted, stand against one wall.

Alexandra steps to one, opens and quickly divests herself of her small arsenal. Closing the door and a quick twist of the key, she pocket's it and turns.

Sally shakes her head and silently takes them to the room. Opening the door, Holmes enters first, followed by Alexandra. Sally checks to make sure the guard is still there as well as the gigantic man. She leaves, slowly closing the door.

Inside, digital camera's rolling behind one way glass, Sherlock pulls out a chair for Alexandra before seating himself. They sit for minutes, just observing the man before them. As if timed, as Sherlock sits back in his particular manner of disregard as Alexandra shifts forward.

Confused, the suspect is unsure where to look, until he is surprised by the woman asking, "dobrý den Oskar." _Good day, Oskar._

Though startled, he pulls his gaze away from here and stares at the wall between his two interrogators.

"Je to škoda , že nejsou jen vrah." _It is a shame you are not just a murderer._

"V těchto dnech problémy , mezinárodní teroristé si velmi málo projednání." _In these days of troubles, international terrorists get very little consideration._

"Stále nic říct ?" _Still nothing to say?_

He sits there in silence.

She looks to Sherlock, who nods. "Tvá matka žije na 6 baranova , Praha ?" _Your mother lives at 6 Baranova, Prague?_

This gets a start out of him, but though flustered, he just rattles his manacles on the table and ignores her.

She pulls a mobile out of a pocket, presses a button and wait's a moment. Then a commanding "vezmi si to!" _take it!_

Finally, he breaks, "Kurva , ne !" _Bitch, no!_

_He lunges up out of his chair, lifting the table as she moves out of the way, calmly closing the phone and pocketing it. _

_The officer calls for assistance, as a quick smile to one and other, they quietly leave the room._

"I'm sorry, Sarah," there's a few moments when the returning Sally hears loud murmuring coming from the doctor's mobile, his frustration evident in his pacing. "I'll be back as soon as I can." Hanging up, he heaves a great sigh, his head hitting the wall with a small thud.

"Problems?" asks a slightly concerned Sally.

"No, yes," he groans, "it's just that sometimes…."

"What?"

"Sometimes Sherlock forgets that while he's fully intrigued and stimulated by a particularly interesting crime, people get hurt." John finds an empty chair and collapses into it, finger tapping against the seat of the chair.

The door to the stairwell opens, admitting companionable chuckling to announce the duo's return.

"…quite an excellent job, doctor."

"Vy thank you," she returns in a heavy German accent, "it is quite easy when you vat buttons to push, ja?"

Their laughter stops when they are confronted with an angry John Watson. "I hope you've learned something important with your fun?"

"It's only a matter of time, John," Sherlock answers.

"Time! Look around, Sherlock, some of us are running out of time, Moriarty is still having fun with you, but the people around you are in danger!" He pushes past the pair of them, into Lestrade's office and snags his coat, swinging it on as he breezes by on his way out.

Before he can leave, Alexandra calls after him, "take the limo."

A negligent wave and he exit's.

She presses a ear-piece and states, "Doctor Watson is on the way down, please take him back to the estate." Clicking it off, she turns to Sherlock, "I'm sorry. He's worried about Sarah."

"I know, do you think I should…." he begins before they're interrupted by an officer arriving.

"The prisoner would like to talk to you," the young man announces, slightly out of breath.

Sally watches as they head away, noticing Sherlock's hand in the small of Alexandra's back. She picks up her phone and begins dialling.

The pair re-enter the room, the prisoner with his head down, slumped in defeat. When he hears the chairs squeak against the floor, he looks up. "I tell you where, you let mama go?" he asks in broken English.

"Certainly," Alexandra answers.

"High Wycombe, Shrubbery Close, first house on the right. You let mama go, now?"

"After we check it out," Sherlock answers, standing, pulls out Alexandra's chair and they leave the room.

Heading to the weapons' locker room, they are joined by Lestrade, "you know he's probably lying."

"Oh, he's definitely lying," Sherlock answers.

"Probably a trap," Alexandra chimes in as she unlocks the metal door and retrieves her weapons.

"Oh, definitely a trap," Sherlock again puts in.

Alexandra turns and they exchange smiles. "I don't have anything better to do today. You?"

"Not that I can recall."

"Listen you two, this is a police operation, I'll not have you mucking it up."

"No worries, Detective Inspector, we'll be glad to let you go in first," Alexandra returns. "Meet you there."

She about-faces and strides out of the room, a hand rising to her ear.

**Remember, reviews are love and extra tasty crisps.**


	12. Traps

Just west of the suburban area surrounded by cordoned off areas with Specialist Firearms Command and assorted emergency services lies Buckinghamshire New University, who's nearby grounds made for an ideal helipad. Two forms exit the helicopter, the female waving it up as they move out of rotor way.

Hurrying through trees and across a road, they join the others at the command centre. Lestrade notices them, and gestures them over. "They're getting ready to breach. You two wait here till we get the all clear." He stalks off as there is a muffled boom.

Sherlock looks about the organized chaos, eyes taking in every detail, "it appears we are being observed."

"Location?" Alexandra queries.

"Half-two, eleven metres."

She lifts her wrist, typing a few keys, "got him."

"Eleven, fifteen metres."

"Check."

"Nine, eight metres, woman with the camera."

"Check, my people will track and acquire." She moves her hand to her ear-bud, clicking it on, "Report." After a moment of listening, "roger, keep a lookout and update on status changes. Over and out."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow in question.

"Nothing obvious, so we're probably looking at it being inside."

A few of the assault team exit, waving calling for the two officers with canines to enter the premises.

Ten minutes later, an all clear is called, though a worried Lestrade is obviously concerned about letting the pair in.

"Can we enter or do you wish to let the local hunt club ride through first?" Sherlock questions sarcastically.

"On your heads be it," he relents. "Let them come through!" he shouts.

They head to the domicile, the door off it's hinges, men milling about, as the canine officers leave the building.

Alexandra enters first, peering into the barely furnished home, Sherlock following right behind. He stops to look about as she moves a metre or so inside.

A barely audible click is the only warning as an automatic rifle begins firing, drywall dust spraying as Alexandra quickly turns with a flying tackle, bears Sherlock to the ground with a grunt as two impacts strike her back. The gun, unable to track that low, keeps firing above them as she throws three metal spikes towards the bullets' origins finally silencing it.

She lays there for a moment, as Sherlock moves out from under her, shouting, "Alexandra!"

He flips her over as she takes a harsh breath, followed by a, "gott damnit! I hate when that happens."

He quickly looks her over, only finding a bit of blood on an already swelling lip, He gently wipes his thumb over it, and at her hiss, shows it too her, "you're bleeding."

There's a sudden influx of personnel, guns drawn, arriving on the intimate scene. A frantic Lestrade enters, relief as he sees the two are still among the living.

Sherlock rises, lending a hand down to Alexandra and assisting her up. She clicks her earpiece, "drop my equipment down."

"How the hell are you still alive?" Lestrade demands, seeing two bullet holes in the back of her coat.

"Body armour," Alexandra replies in a still husky voice.

"And if you hadn't gotten to Sherlock in time?"

Here, Sherlock opens his coat and knocks on his own defence, "better than having my own tank."

The sounds of a helicopter overhead become louder, as a fabric covered clunk lands outside the door. A man in full assault gear with a stylized RS patch on the shoulder enters carrying a large black fabric duffle. At a nod from his boss, he sets up in an out of the way corner, taking equipment out of the bag and setting it up.

Alexandra cracks her neck one way and the other, a deep sigh as she turns to Lestrade, "anyone with delicate or indispensable devices need to be ten metres away from this house."

Lestrade passes the word, and everyone moves out.

Sherlock asks, "what about my mobile?"

"You'll be fine, it's unshielded equipment that's in danger."

"We're ready, Ma'am," the man states.

"Go ahead," she commands.

He flips a switch, and loud cursing comes from outside from a man who hadn't moved far enough away,

"Leave it on, I don't want any surprises while we check out the house," Alexandra informs her man.

"We've got about twenty minutes on this battery."

"Then let's be at it," she walks to the bag, removing a sensor wand of some sort and a indelible marker. Her man does the same, they each take a quadrant of the room, waving the wand against the wall and marking where they get an indication.

As they parse this room, Sherlock walks to the destroyed wall, trying to view the very nearly deadly weapon. Not quite able to see the rifle, he walks back to Alexandra.

"You wouldn't happen to have…." he begins, interrupted by her lifting her wakizashi blade from behind her back and hands it over, returning to her chore.

Another man and two women in Ravenna Security armour enter and begin opening the walls behind the silver marks on the walls, carefully removing the equipment and placing them in what appeared to be silver Mylar bags.

Sherlock carefully cuts into the wall surrounding the rifle, finding it set into a metal brace, with a computer connection to automatically fire under command.

A woman comes over to take the computerized components away, leaving the weapon for the police to deal with.

Sherlock moves further into the house, looking for clues and letting his mind ruminate.

Alexandra follows quietly, continuing her work, while keeping an eye out.

Walking through the kitchen into the dining room, Sherlock stops and walks back and forth over a portion of the carpeted area. He quickly shifts off the rug, flinging it up out of the way, revealing a trap door in the floor. He moves to grab the recessed ring with his free hand as a strong arm reaches out and halts him.

Frustrated, he glares up at Alexandra.

"Could be a manual trigger, not everything is computerized, better safe," she comments. "Bring the GPR!" she shouts back to the front of the house.

Quick footsteps bring one of the men carrying a ten kilo device with a screen attached by wires. He and Alexandra switch equipment, and at her nod of dismissal, he leaves.

She places the large boxed portion of the equipment on top of the door in the floor, flipping a switch on the screen. It takes but a moment for a picture to form, a wire leading off to the right, with what appear to be sixteen points arrayed in a square.

"Ah, ground penetrating radar," Sherlock comments, interested.

Alexandra twiddles a dial and the wire disappears and the points widen. Switching off the equipment, she removes it to the kitchen, takes a narrow rope out of a pocket and carefully ties it around the handle in the floor.

Moving herself and Sherlock out of harms way in the kitchen behind a wall in the direction of the trap door hinges, she cries out, "fire in the hole!" and pulls the rope.

The door flies up and sixteen pointed metal rods shoot up into the ceiling at an angle, passing through the air where the first to open it would be pierced.

"What do you mean, fire in the hole?" Lestrade's voice announces his arrival in the kitchen, observing the two crouched down behind the wall and looking past them into the newly renovated dinning area. "Oh."

"Um," Sherlock begins, as they both stand, "thanks," he offers as an apology handing over her blade.

"My pleasure, let's see what else this funhouse has to offer," she replies, sheathing the weapon.

She moves out to carefully check inside the room under the floor, dropping down and avoiding the steps. "Someone's got quite a nasty mind," she offers to the men above.

"What is it?" Sherlock asks.

"A false step with a lovely bear trap below it." There's a heaving metallic thud, "disarmed, come on down, but avoid the third step from the bottom."

The two men come down carefully into the darkness, small torches lighting their way.

They arrive at the bottom to see Alexandra releasing a telescoping baton from the vicious looking teeth of the bear trap. Closing the baton by pressing its head into the cement floor, they carefully move into the room. Sitting in a chair, facing away from the stairs is a form sitting at an old beaten desk.

Sherlock is blocked from going to it by a hand on his chest. Surprisingly it is Lestrade restraining him as Alexandra carefully moves over to it, pulling gloves from her coat.

Lestrade illuminates her target as she spins it about to face the two men, a stuffed human dummy is propped in the chair, clothed in a Burberry suit with a note pined to his tie, with 'Boo' printed on it in red.

Alexandra holds out a hand, forestalling Sherlock's plunge and sniffs the air around the manikin.

"We're going to need a hazmat team here, Lestrade."

"What is it?" Sherlock asks.

"Poison, if I'm not mistaken."

"Four minutes, Ma'am!" a voice calls from above.

"Let's get some fresh air while my people change the battery and clear this house," Alexandra suggests.

"Sounds good to me. Sherlock?" Lestrade asks of the quiet man.

"Hmmn?" he grunts, looking about the room, "yeah, that would be fine."

The three carefully make their way back up the steps, avoiding the false third tread.

As they exit, Alexandra keys her ear-bud, "anything?" After receiving information, she returns, "take the men, I want surveillance on the woman. Thanks. Over and out."

"Take what men, where?" inquires an exasperated Lestrade.

"Just some people of interest," Sherlock answers. "As to where, it depends on who they are."

"Listen, Sherlock, this is still a police investigation, I can't have you and your friends interfering with the case!"

"Take it up with the Home Office," Sherlock instructs.

Moving to break the coming argument, Alexandra draws Lestrade off, "my people should be off site in less than twenty minutes, then it should be safe for your forensics to get inside."

"Where are you to going?"

"Home," she answers, leading her charge away, "dinner plans."

As they head to the pick up site, they both smile at one and other to Lestrade's, "bloody hell!"

Walking down the street in the fading daylight, they talk quietly to each other.

"Did you notice?"

"Yes, I'm concerned at this escalation," she returns.

"At least three deadly traps, all meant for me," Sherlock observes.

"Looks like the game has changed."

**Ok, folks, how do you like it so far? Anything you'd like to see, or not? Moriarty's a bloodthirsty bugger, ain't he? Thinking of taking them somewhere posh, any sugestions as to where, I'd like there to possibly be a royal presence there. Keep up the reviews and messages, they make me write faster!**


	13. Preparations

The door opens to let Alexandra and Sherlock inside.

A young man joins Gunthar, waiting for them to divest themselves of their outer-gear.

"Ma'am," he enjoins, handing a folded paper and leaving.

She opens the paper and reads, "they've arrived safely, no obvious followers," she folds it back up and places it on the side table, "that's one thing sorted."

"Good," Sherlock answers, distractedly,

"Worries?"

"Not sure this plan's going to work," he looks about and shakes himself. "Sorry. I hadn't realized how accustomed to John I've become."

"Understandable, you compliment one and other quite well."

With just a jerk to acknowledge that, he wanders towards the stairs.

Gunthar finishes with the coats and turns to his mistress, "this came earlier, Madam," and he hands over a formally addresses missive.

Slipping a nail under the flap, Alexandra quickly opens and reads the invitation. "Ah, excellent, this should help. Gunthar, if you could ring Carlisle, we'll be needing his expertise this evening, and answer the RSVP in the affirmative for two."

"Yes, Madam, at once," he answers, a quick bow and is off.

"Dinner in an hour, Sherlock," she calls, as he reaches the second floor landing.

"Not hungry," drifts down, to which she just shakes her head.

Sherlock opens the door to his suite, passing through to his room and walks directly to his violin, opening the case, pulling out the bow, tightening the hair and pulling out a half-used piece of rosin. Coating the hair generously, he pops it back into the small section housing it as well as extra strings, pulling out the violin, running the bow over the strings, carefully altering the tension on two strings to bring them into tune.

A blank look upon his face as he softly pulls the bow across the D string, long fingers pressing down, a wandering tune from somewhere deep inside.

Downstairs, the melody floating to concerned ears, a sad countenance comes upon her face, as her shoulders slump and she moves deeper into the mansion.

Evening has come, and while the sounds of a household working quietly are barely discerned, there is nothing else breaking it's efficient hum until the loud sounding of the front bell bestirs the ground-floor staff, Gunthar calmly but with surprising speed answers the summoning sound, opens the front door and admits a well dressed man with two assistants in tow, a young man and slightly older woman, fashionably if not richly dressed.

The young man carries a thick garment bag, the woman carrying a black case.

As they enter the foyer, Gunthar taking coats, Alexandra approaches, changed into a brightly coloured pantsuit of silk, very like a couture version of a gi. "Ah, Carlisle, I'm so glad you could fit me in."

"For you, Mademoiselle Alexandra," he states in a quite posh voice, "I would move heaven and earth to accommodate you."

"You are too sweet," she replies to his enthusiasm, beginning to lead him and his to the stairs. Up the curving steps, to the first suite on the right, she knocks at the door.

Receiving an indifferent grunt from inside, she opens the door on a darkened room, the fireplace lit, throwing shifting shadows across the room and only just revealing a languid form on the sofa perpendicular to the flames.

Hold up a hand to halt the others at the as she enters, making her way to her lounging guest, "Sherlock?"

"Thinking," he replies, arm throw over his face, hiding his eyes.

"Can you do that while these nice people take your measure?"

"Of course I can."

"Will you?"

"Whatever for?"

She squats down next to his head and quietly answers, "there's a bit of a do, tomorrow evening, and I thought we should take our show out on the road, as it were."

"Ah," he removes his arm and looks at her, a slight upturning of his lips and crinkle of his eyes, "if it is to be done, best it t'were done quickly."

A throaty chuckle accompanies him, as she rises and gestures the group by the door, twisting the light switch by the door to illuminate the room for their endeavours. 

The assistants wait for their primary to enter, following quickly upon his heel. He stops and motions them to continue on towards the slim man slowly rising from his leisure.

A quick snap from Carlisle brings the woman hurrying back with an I-pad. Handing it over, he waves her off, fingers pressing the screen, pulling up images.

The woman returns to the other two men, one in his rolled up shirt sleeves, the other removing a small electronic device half the size of a book and a measuring tape. He hands it over to the woman, who begins to measure every available portion of Sherlock's lanky anatomy with quiet efficiency, softly calling out numbers as the young man enters them.

Meanwhile, Alexandra and Carlisle discourse over the correct gown for the occasion. He flips through an array of images, showing a variety of styles, "what is your desire for this event?"

She thinks for a moment, "stylish, classic but with a bit of a modern twist, stunning without being vulgar."

"As always, a woman with impeccable taste, formal length, then?"

"Yes, oh, and flow-y, if possible."

He smiles, and pulls up a picture of a royal blue dress, looks at it and at her and shakes his head, flips through a few more images and settles on another. He hands over the pad in triumph.

She takes it and looks at the image, a smile on her face, he hits another image, showing the back of the gown. She flips and enlarges the picture. "Can we do without this flourish here?" she questions, pointing at the screen.

"Most certainly, would you like it in another colour?" he asks, gently taking the pad back and making quick notes.

"No, the wine is perfect," she replies, turning to see Sherlock standing arms out, a black, double-breasted tuxedo jacket on his frame, "very nice."

"I feel like a Barbie," he groans.

She puffs herself up and in a very stuffy, posh voice, "ah, the things we do for Queen and country. Shall thee not gird thy form for the night's revels?"

He gives her a sardonic grin and returns, 'so, shut up and man up?"

She returns his grin and replies in the diametrically opposite chav-speak, "you knows it," to the consternation and surprise of the three invaders as the two of them begin laughing.

As they settle down, she turns back to the designer, "he'll also need a conservative suit for tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll have it delivered tonight, the tux will be here no later than eleven tomorrow."

"I have complete faith in your abilities."

He turns to his assistants, "completed?

"Yes sir," the young man answers as the woman carefully removes the jacket from Sherlock. She replaces it into the bag, zipping it up and laying it upon her arm.

The trio of clothiers leave, with the designer giving a bow before he exit's the room.

"That was different, so what is all this unnecessary fuss for?"

"We have an appointment at Buckingham Palace tomorrow, and then an evening reception."

"That sounds beyond tedious."

"Exactly, so what would it normally take to get you to one of these proceedings?"

"Four strong men, manacles and a delivery van," he returns with a grimace.

"So how would it appear if you were seen voluntarily in such circumstances of your own volition?"

"That paint's a rather large target on your back."

"True, but that's the plan. Tomorrow morning, barring any new leads, we'll move to my town property on Half Moon Street. It's just a few minutes away from the Palace and is my listed address for London," she moves towards the door, but turns before leaving, "pack things for a few days, don't bring anything you mind losing, just in case." With this, she exit's the room, closing the door behind her.

The limo smoothly parses the traffic around Piccadilly, turning down streets, passing green parks and expensive properties. The driver pulls up to a narrow but tall townhouse on Half Moon Street, it's white exterior putting a cheerful face upon the street on this unusually sunny day. 

The driver exits and circles the auto, opening the back door and handing Alexandra out. She is quickly followed by Sherlock, wrapped in his long coat. They step up to the front entranceway as the door opens. Gunthar stands ready to take their coats and get them settled.

"Madam, your respective outfits have arrived and are in your rooms. A light meal is set in the breakfast room."

"Thank you, Gunthar, has my jewellery box arrived?"

"Yes, I placed it in the vault in your dressing room."

"That should be all for now, we'll ring if you are needed."

"Very good, Madam," Gunthar concludes before he moves off deeper into the house.

Alexandra leads him past the stairs into the breakfast room, a wooden table covered with breakfast delights. She points out the lift in the southeast corner of the room. "Your bedroom is on the third floor, at the front of the house. We leave at half two, there's a suit and accessories hanging in your room."

At this he begins to head to the lift, but before he can move more than three paces, he's interrupted.

"Hold it, Mister, we've got a long, stressful day ahead of us, you need to at least tuck in a bit of food, I want you firing on all cylinders."

He spins round, looking at her face, her determination slowly moves him to the table. He takes a seat, and begins to place a few items on his plate.

She joins him at the table, pouring a cup of tea for each of them, before she, too, begins to place eggs, sausages and toast upon her plate. As she spoons some mixed fruit onto her plate, she begins, "I thank you for eating, I know it goes against your modus operadi."

He shrugs as he begins to eat a small amount of breakfast.

Alexandra lifts her serviette and wipes her mouth. Setting neatly down, "Sherlock, what's the matter?" she asks.

He sits in silence for a moment, thinking. "I suppose I'm not too pleased playing this cat and mouse game."

"Do you have a viable alternative?" she gently asks.

"No, and that's what makes it even more frustrating. It still feels like he's driving the game."

"Well, that's what we want him to think. I wish we had more information on his early years."

"It wouldn't surprise me to find he'd been conceived in some demonic rite, and as a small child, would do live vivisections on small beasts."

"I've some of my people looking through old records that have been segregated from the standard databases, hopefully they'll find something that hasn't been corrupted or deleted."

At this moment, Gunthar enters, "your stylist is here. Where shall I send her?"

Alexandra pushes away from the table, as Sherlock places more food on his plate, surprising himself at his appetite. "I'll take her up, I'm finished." As she moves away, she places a gentle hand on his shoulder for a moment, not saying anything. She then gracefully moves into the front reception area.

A minute later, Alexandra walks through, a well-kept middle aged woman follows a few steps behind, a large case on wheels pulled behind her.

Sherlock ignores the parade, until he hears the lift doors close, and machinery operating. Placing his fork on the plate, he moves his hand to the shoulder Alexandra touched. "What am I getting myself into?" he mutters to himself.


	14. Ambush

In a charcoal grey Armani suit, Sherlock waits in the reception room, awaiting Alexandra's entrance. He's a few minutes early, and he wonders what he's doing in such an expensive get up. Adjusting the silver and burgundy tie, he's amazed by just how comfortable he is.

A whir and quiet ding, announce someone's arrival on the ground floor. Soft taping of heels pronounce Alexandra's arrival. Turning to the door, he's surprised to see her standing there, in a cream, Jackie Kennedy influenced dress and short jacket. It's trim in black matching her purse, shoes and gloves.

The matching hat and strand of pearls pull the entire outfit together. The most surprising item on his hostess is the red and white ribbon pinned on her left lapel, a matching medal in the shape of the Maltese cross hanging from it.

"You do clean up well, don't you?" Sherlock inquires.

"As do you, are you terribly uncomfortable?"

"Surprisingly not. Your tailor is excellent."

"I'll let him know you approve," she looks at the white gold and pearl watch on her arm, We'd best get started, it never hurts to be a little early."

With this, Sherlock grabs a camel hair top coat from Gunthar's waiting arms, shrugging into it, then bowing Alexandra out the door.

He slips into the limo first, moving over to the far side as Alexandra carefully enters, keeping the short length of her dress at a modest level.

The driver shuts the door on them, moving around the vehicle and slowly pulling out.

Alexandra leans over to open a panel under the seat across from her. She opens a small safe and pulls a little envelope from inside, before she closes it, she opens her purse and pulls out a black velvet bag. She places this inside the safe and closes it and the panel.

Sherlock watches, intrigued, assuming that the bag held more jewellery, but wondering what was in the small envelope. He didn't have long to ponder, as she quickly opened it.

Two small flesh coloured earwigs rolled into her hand. She hands one to Sherlock and places the other into her right ear. He notices that it is barely perceptible and does the same, but into his left.

"These will let us keep in touch and know what's going on with the other at all times."

"Good idea. Let me make sure I've got this right, I'm to be the proud companion to Dr. Ravenna,"

"That should do it, will it be too much of a struggle?" she asks, uneasily.

"Not a problem, but don't expect me to play the besotted lover. No one who even slightly knows me would believe it."

"Good, I lost my taste for besotted lovers centuries ago," she returns with a grin.

"You're not looking too bad for an old hag," he rejoins with a matching grin.

"Hey! Watch it or this old hag will turn you into toad, then how would you solve your mysteries, you can only get one nicotine patch on a toad."

"Opps, I recant that last statement. You are young and lovely and kind, please don't turn me into an amphibian!"

"We'll," she drawls, All right. You're forgiven. This time. Don't let it happen again, or…." at this, she raises her hands into threatening claws and cackles.

Sherlock recoils in mock distress, as they near the end of the quick ride to Buckingham Palace. Recovering sobriety, as the drive stops for directions to drop off the queen's guest.

Sherlock shifts a bit towards Alexandra and murmurs, "you are an evil influence and will come to a bad end."

She just gives him a confident smile as the limo pulls to the reception entrance.

Sherlock springs from the car, manoeuvres around the back and opens the door for Alexandra, giving her a hand out. Once she is out and the door closed, he offers her his arm as he leads her inside.

Inside they are separated, Sherlock is pointed into the direction for the attendees, Alexandra to the room for the briefing by the Lord Chamberlain for the recipients.

After the instructions are delivered, the recipients wait, some lined up, some sitting, many talking to one another, some wandering about with nervous energy.

Alexandra is a port of calm, slowly circling the outside walls of the room, taking in the beautiful artwork displayed.

Being near the end of the list, she is unconcerned when strains of God Save The Queen begin, though her fellow recipients take this as the time for quiet.

One by one, those receiving awards and honours file in and have their moment's with the queen.

About fifty minutes into the ceremony, Alexandra is next in line, the gentleman before her receiving and OBE as she stands beside the Lord Chamberlain.

Finally, her name is called.

"The Countess, Dr. Alexandra Ravenna, for excellence in industry and advances in science."

A slight hesitation at hearing her Austrian rank, Alexandra walks calmly down the aisle turns, gives a perfect small curtsey to Her Royal Majesty, and advances the three steps before the Queen on the dais.

The Queen's hands receive the Order of the Companions of Honour, which she then places on the hook attached to Alexandra's lapel earlier. "I see we are not the only one's to recognize your achievements. I understand you're company has developed many items that we even utilize here in the Palace."

"Yes your Majesty. I do have that honour."

"Continue your good works," the Queen returns, and dismisses her with a nod.

Alexandra backs up three paces, still facing the Queen and gives another perfect curtsy. She turns and begins to walk towards the receiving room.

Her exit is interrupted by a voice calling out, "the Countess, Dr. Alexandra Ravenna for services to the Crown."

A startled murmur greets this announcement, as one person receiving two honours in one day is almost unprecedented.

Alexandra does not let the consternation she's feeling show as she calmly returns to face the Queen, another reverence before the Queen. Stepping up before the Queen, her aide has another medal on the cushion, this one gold on a blue ribbon with red edges and a white line down the centre.

Placing this on top of the other medal, as she only had one hook, the Queen begins to speak, "we know much of what you have done for Us and Our Kingdom, and while much is covered under the Official Secrets Act, we still feel this is long past due." Here the Queen receives her hand, shaking it gently and whispers, "besides, We have had a difficult time getting you here, and thought it best to ambush you."

Alexandra hears a chuckle in her ear-bud as the Queen continues, "Thank you for your care and efforts on Our behalf. May you continue to hold us in your regard in the years to come."

At this, Alexandra steps back, one, two, three paces, and gives a deep curtsy. Turning, she quickly but smoothly exits. In the other room, she is congratulated by the few people inside before she moves to the attendant, who takes each award off the hook, placing in it's own black case. He removes the hook from her lapel, and hands over the two thin cases as he offers his own congratulations.

Thanking him, she exit's the room at the back, re-entering the Grand Ballroom form the back and takes a seat a row back and one seat to the left of Sherlock. She taps his shoulder to let him know she was there.

He shifts slightly to better look at her, an inquiring eyebrow lifted supported by a small grin.

He is quite surprised to see this well composed woman blush as she shrugs.

The ceremony continues for another twenty minutes, when the last award is given. The Lord Chamberlain moves before the Queen, an indication for all to rise. Once more the British National Anthem is played. All remain standing until the strains end an the Queen is lead away by her honour guard and two Gurkha orderly officers

Alexandra and Sherlock remain seated as most of the room rise and begin heading out. With just a few people left in the room, Sherlock rises and moves to sit next to Alexandra, she slightly slumped in the chair, gazing up at the ceiling.

"Bit of a surprise, that?"

Not taking her eyes from above, she answers, "definitely."

They sit quietly for a moment, when Alexandra sighs and straightens up, "I guess we should go face the public glare."

Sherlock stands, lowers a hand to help her from her seat. He offers her his arm and escorts her out of the ballroom, down the numerous stairs and out to the courtyard where various news presenters and reports stand, taking interviews with some of the better known honourees.

One unoccupied reporter being followed by a cameraman notices her arrival and rushes over to confront her. Others notice and begin to swarm about the couple.

Sherlock releases her arm and steps back, letting Alexandra be the focus.

"Countess!" calls one of them, proffering his microphone, "just a few questions, please?"

"Please, it's Doctor. Austria no longer recognizes titles of nobility."

"Dr. Ravenna, then," the reporter continues, "being awarded two honours is quite rare, did you know you were receiving both?"

"No, I was completely blindsided by this, I had no idea the Queen intended to give me the Royal Victorian Order."

"For what services to the Crown did you get the award?" asks a thirty-something woman in blue.

"No, sorry, that is classified."

A gentleman carrying just a small recording devices raises his voice, "Dr. Ravenna, just what is your doctorate in?"

"I hold doctorates in psychology and physics."

He follows up with a second question, "and Ravenna Industries, just what does your company do?"

"We cover a wide area, security systems, medical advances to space exploration."

Unnoticed until now, the Lord Chamberlain had come into the courtyard, looking around, he moves towards Alexandra. She steps away from the reporters, giving herself the semblance of privacy. He whispers into her ear, to which she nods her head.

Moving back to the reporters, she announces, "I'm sorry but I'm called away. Thank you."

She turns about, looking to Sherlock. He falls in step as she returns to the Lord Chamberlain and follows him inside, the reporters still calling questions towards the retreating trio.

**Hello folks, hope you've like it so far, drop me a quick note and I'll be forever beholden. I'll send you virtual marks. **


	15. Chapter 15

Once inside, away from the reporters' clamour, the Lord Chamberlain announces, "Her Majesty requests your attendance, Milady."

Looking to Sherlock and getting his almost imperceptible nod, she replies, "it would be our honour, we wait upon her convenience."

With a bow and a, "very good, please come with me,: he leads them, not through the elaborate, ornate path that leads to the Queen's private audience chamber, but the quicker, yet winding hallways that snake throughout the palace. As he hurriedly blazes a trail, he quickly moves to reassure the pair, "brining you through the staff entrance is no reflection of the Queen's regard."

"There is no concern, we do not require the grand procession, though I do love what I've seen of the Royal collection."

"Besides," Sherlock offers, "this is more efficient."

This makes Alexandra glance at him with a fond grin.

"Um, yes, indeed, it is," the Lord Chamberlain reluctantly agrees, unsure how to interpret this seemingly blasé statement.

The three remain silent until they exit the back ways and enter a wider hallway, appointed with beautiful artwork and furniture.

They stop at a doubled-door, "if you'd please wait?" the Lord Chamberlain asks, as he softly knocks on the door and enters.

"Western side of the palace," Sherlock murmurs.

"Yes, the audience room looks out eastward into the quadrangle," adds Alexandra.

"Have you been here before?"

"Ages ago, though the Queen wasn't in residence at the time."

The door opens, and the Lord Chamberlain bows them inside, "the Queen will be with you in a few moments."

They enter, walking into the large room with various sitting areas, a large doorway to a balcony overlooking the quadrangle and doors leading to another room across the way. Their guide leaves, closing the door behind them, leaving them to their own.

Moving about the room, Sherlock takes in the minuscule clues about the room.

One of the doors opposite them opens, the Queen enters, wearing a very conservative woollen suit of light blue. She walks to the pair, her hand outstretched to Alexandra, "thank you for coming, Dr. Ravenna. I hope we did not disconcert you overly."

She takes the Queen's hand and curtsey's, "no your Majesty, though I am greatly honoured." Rising, she turns slightly to her companion, "may I present Mr. Sherlock Holmes, your Majesty?"

"You may indeed, we have heard a many great things of him."

At this, a slightly uncomfortable Sherlock takes the offered hand and bows over it.

The Queen gives him her attention, "I understand you are involved with the bombing investigations."

"Yes Ma'am, we are,' he manages, a bit unsure how to continue.

She directs them to an area with a sofa and chairs, taking one of the chairs and awaiting on their joining her.

As they sit, the Queen leans back into her chair, eying the pair. "I was given to understand there were injuries, recently."

"Only minor ones, your Majesty, quickly remedied," Alexandra answers.

"So there is nothing to hinder your investigations. I expect a quick resolution, these bombings must be stopped."

"As the focus for this bomber, I, too, would like this brought to a quick and satisfactory completion," Sherlock opines.

"We'll leave it to you, for now," the Queen announces, "but if it takes too much longer, others' will have to be brought in."

At this, the pair look to each other, then back to the Queen. As the two answer the Queen in the affirmative, Alexandra looks over to a small mirror on the wall, focusing upon it,

Getting the correct responses, the Queen relaxes, turning to small talk.

A bit of a commotion from the front doors announce the entrance of Prince Phillip and a few of the royal corgis,

As they caper into the room, the Prince moves towards his wife and her guests.

Alexandra and Sherlock rise, each giving the proper reverence to the Prince.

A quick nod to acknowledge the pair, and the Prince speaks to the Queen in his familiar gruff voice, "pardon me, but you wanted some time before this evening."

A smile to her husband, the Queen rises, "thank you both for your time, I expect We shall see you at the reception." Taking her husbands arm as her guests bow and curtsy, the royal pair leave the room, leaving the corgis behind.

The small dogs gather about them, demanding attention. Alexandra carefully squats down, giving the wriggling bundles of fur fond pets.

A clearing of someone's throat interrupts the canine love fest. Alexandra and Sherlock turn to find another attendant ready to take them to their limo.

A quiet walk back to the reception courtyard, now empty of news crews and people, a single vehicle a wait's the pair to return them back to Alexandra's residence.

The door opens as they approach, Gunthar doing his usual duty, and after taking their outer wear, hands a large envelope over to Alexandra.

"Ah, good, looks like we might have some leads, let's say ten minutes on the fourth floor?"

"Fine," Sherlock agrees, as they head upstairs.

Ten minutes finds Sherlock changed back to his standard wear, climbing the final steps to the fourth floor, a quick glance into an empty bedroom sends him searching towards the back of the floor, finding a well furnished study with shelves full of books, a small desk and a sitting area with a coffee table before a sofa, each facing a unit with a television screen and multi-media system.

A soft swish proceeds his hostess, who enters behind him, freshly washed wearing a brightly coloured silk caftan, her hair damp down her back, the envelope in her hand.

"How do you manage that?" he inquires.

"Manage what?"

"Changing and bathing in ten minutes? I've been led to believe that it is impossible for a woman to get ready in less than an hour," he comments, a smile on his face.

"Magic."

"Ok, don't tell me, keep your secrets, I shall fathom them out myself."

"Before you begin that tedious investigation, perhaps you'd like to know what's been discerned on our more immediate concern?"

"Fine, but you'll not slip away that easily."

Shaking her head in mock aggravation, she gestures for him to join her on the sofa.

She opens the envelope, two file folders and a disc slip out. She hands one over to Sherlock, while she takes the other. They quickly read over the papers, then switch. Almost as one, they close the second file.

"At least we know why we couldn't follow his vehicle beyond High Street. A pub, just after midnight, good place to get lost," Alexandra comments.

"The equipment might eventually lead us somewhere, but there are bound to be layers of false trails by this point," Sherlock adds.

Alexandra gets up, places the disc into a dvd player, grabs the remote from the shelf and returns to her seat.

On the screen, a sterile room with subdued lighting appears, the current date and an earlier time stamped on a lower corner. A disembodied voice states, "this is the final interrogation of one Edward Miles,


End file.
